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RANGE TALES 


By EDWIN B. HILL 


A few stories based on scenes and incidents inspired by the 
Arizona country. Here all nature is riotous in her appeal 
to those who seek to hold communion with the grand 
and beautiful. The rainbow hues of the canyon , the 
parched sands of the desert, the mountain peak 
towering toward high Heaven, the wooded dell, 
the swiftly flowing river — all unite in a call 
to the soul that must respond unless it be 
calloused by mean and sordid things. > 


BOOK SERIES NUMBER FIFTEEN 
Price Fifteen Cents 


PUBLISHED BY 

SEVERN -WYLIE -JEWETT CO. 
Proprietors Mekeel’s Weekly Stamp News 
Boston, Massachusetts 


A* 




FOREWORD 


I count it a great privilege and a great honor to write this 
prefatory word. I have known the author since boyhood days, 
when we both worshipped at the shrine of amateur journalism 
and developed the attachment for printers’ ink that has never 
deserted us. 

One cannot read the Tales assembled in this booklet without 
sensing the real literary ability that brought them into being. 
Moreover, I may add that we would have a profound admiration 
for the writer could we realize the difficulties under which he has 
labored in producing them. 

After all, we know but little about those whom we call friends. 
We chat with them, but we know nothing about the heart-aches, 
nothing about the trials and temptations, and with a word of the 
commonplace, when the human touch is needed, we pass on. 

The world is too busy, too formal, too merciless, too intent 
upon the dollar to pause in its headlong rush towards the com- 
mercial with the result that the finer sensibilities of the soul become 
smothered by materialism. 

God be praised however that here and there may be found 
those who have not forgotten the Sermon on the Mount. They 
are indeed "the salt of the earth.” They radiate the gospel of 
good cheer and neighborliness and their daily deeds modestly 
performed are oases in the vast expanse of things material. 

In these Tales we find a string of pearls. Each one is an entity 
in itself, yet each one breathes the spirit of the free air of hill 
and plain. The simile is perfected in the relationship that exists 
between them. They are strung upon the cord of philately, than 
which there is no finer hobby in all the world. 

Would you know more of the charms of fair Philatelia ? You 
will find the Goddess gracious as you enter her presence, patient as 
she unfolds her mysteries and entrancing as you become better 
acquainted with her. May these Tales not only entertain you, hut 
lead you on into the delights of the hobby universal. 

WILLARD O. WYLIE. 


Beverly, Mass., May 15 , 1916 . 


TABLE OF CONTENTS 


Frontispiece 
Foreword 
Across the Divide 
"Unto This Last” 

The Apotheosis of Jimmy O’. 
The Ills of Jimmy O’. 

The Conversion of Eddy Fyne 
The Lost Voice 

The Carelessness of Willy Grow 
The Wetness of Willow 
Jimmy 0’.: Health-Restorer - 
The Passing of the Collection 
The Motorcycle and the Cowboy 
His Tattered Darlings 
The Cowboys and the Movies 
Jimmy 0’.: Apostle of Peace 
Philately off the Range 
Jimmy O’. Works a Reform 
"The One-Lunger” 


Page 

3 

5 

7 

9 

11 

13 

15 

17 

19 

21 

23 

25 

27 

29 

31 

33 

35 

37 


Illustrations by Courtesy Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railway System. 


ACROSS THE DIVIDE. 

NUMBER ONE. 


The red headed girl at the general 
delivery window in the postoffice of Wil- 
low was chewing gum, quite audibly, as 
she ran through a bundle of letters from 
the box labeled “M”. The patron at 
the window who was delaying the sale 
of a “book o’ two’s” was also busy with 
a piece of gum, of spruce variety, a 
handful of which was cumbering the 
glass change-counter in front of the 
Titian beauty. I myself arrived in time 
to hear the fag end of the following 
conversation. 

“As I was sayin’ to my first wife, gum 
is the gift o’ the gods to them that has 
teeth, or — ” 

“Or a good dentist,” ended the r. h. g. 

They both laughed, and then the man 
was turning away. Here the girl sighted 
me, waiting, — waiting patiently for my 
book o’ two’s, and her face at once 
matched her hair. 

“I do beg your pardon,” she began. “I 
wanted to ask if you’d — ” 

“Have a piece of gum,” drawled the 
other voice as the owner passed out the 
door. 

Certainly we had to laugh at this, and 
as the red headed girl had a sense of 
humor, she pushed along a couple pieces 
of gum, clinching the humor issue irre- 
vocably. 

“That’s Frevor Moore,” she said. “He 
is the one other stamp collector on the 
range. I wanted you to meet him.. I 
told him you’d brought your collection 
with you, most likely, and I know he’d 
be glad to see it. He’ll be back, so wait.” 

I waited. It was not ten minutes be- 
fore the door was shadowed by the gum 
man. I had opportunity then to observe 
him more carefully, — a youngish man 
but with hair quite grey, and brown 
eyes that looked at you and far beyond. 
His walk was quietness itself, — as 
though in his stride he touched only the 
air. On his head was the inevitable 
wide-brim, grey white hat of Philadel- 
phia make and Arizona adoption. He 
wore a light blue shirt, and his trousers 
were of khaki. Around his waist was 
a belt, but with the essential “forty-five”, 
gun and scabbard, now absent. The 
stable held both I was sure, for in this 


frontier town the new arrival is allowed 
thirty minutes to shed his gun, if sober; 
otherwise, as many seconds suffice. 

Moore came directly to me, the in- 
formal introduction over, his face alight 
with friendship. 

“Yes, I, too, am a stamp-lover, in a 
small way, and as we are the only ones 
this side Tucson we ought to be good 
company, eh?” 

The heat of Arizona midday was for- 
gotten. It was the one oasis in months 
of desert-waiting. Moore’s language, 
too, betrayed the culture which was 
sloughed when he talked with the girl, — 
whereat I wondered. 

“Give my love to your first wife,” 
called the red-headed girl, as we went 
into the open, and she out of this story. 

My companion laughed his infectious 
laugh, and then explained that his “first 
wife” was a neighbor’s child, age six, 
for whom he had promised to “wait 
while she grew up.” 

“I want you to saddle up and come 
with me,” said my new friend. “We’ll 
be gone a fortnight, up at Three-Bar-X, 
and I’ll show you something in stamps 
that will open your eyes. They’re not 
mine. It’s the collection of a Spanish 
boy — Mexican — who was at the rodeo 
last year. Now he’s in Mexico with one 
of the rebel bands. He’s a fine boy, col- 
lege-bred, and altogether too good 1 to 
be tangled up in that affair. But,” after 
a pause, “it’s his business, not mine.” 

Within an hour, we were riding into 
the mountains. The second day we ar- 
rived at the long, low adobe ranch-house, 
peopled by two collies and a Chinese 
cook. The boys, Moore explained, were 
“out on the range.” 

My host dived into a basin of water 
like a bird taking a plunge. “Best way 
to get cool,” he explained. I was more 
circumspect. 

“Now for the stamps,” he said, as we 
finished dampening the towels. Moore’s 
collection, mounted in several old Inter- 
national albums, vintage of ’ 04 , was not 
of great moment, although it contained 
some scarce United States, among them 
a set of the 1869 issue, and some B. N. 
A.’s that would pleasure even the most 


5 


jaded collector. I recall New Brunswick 
one shilling, unused, without gum — 
“eaten by ants in India,” explained the 
owner, sadly — and Cape Triangulars, 
fairly complete, in all printings, except 
the wood-blocks. There were some old 
Germans, too, which were notable for 
margins and cleanliness; and Sarawak 
was represented by No. 1, used, the rest 
nearly complete. 

“I lived there — once,” explained my 
host, in a voice which had the sound of 
a closed book. 

And so I turned the leaves to the end. 

Moore arose, and from beneath the 
cot pulled forth a trunk of prehistoric 
brand. He lifted the lid. “Here it is,” 
said he, fondly, “and it’s worth while, — 
this lot of stamps.” 

The collection was housed in a fine 
mahogany box, brass mounted. The al- 
bums, which were of the blank style, 
showed evidence of careful handling. 

“Mexico’s the one country,” said 
Moore, as he passed the books over to 
me. It was. My eyes opened. Here 
was a specialist’s collection, fully “writ- 
ten up.” My familiarity with Castilian 
made the thing a revelation. 

“It’s all there,” said my host, “Every- 
thing.” 

And it was. Stamps surcharged with 
district names, and errors with and with- 
out ; everything regular and irregular, 
complete, — fine, clean, well-centered. 
Many stamps had their history carefully 
written out in a beautiful hand. 

I turned the leaves, and gasped. 

“Campeche — yellow paper, and the 
white,” declared my host, “and also com- 
plete, on the original.” 

The rare Chiapas were there, too, and 
Guadalajara, while Cuernavoca — Mon- 
terey — Patzcuaro — Zocatecas < (the last 
four doubtful as to authenticity) were 
there to prove their right to live in a 
specialist’s collection. 

“The man who collected these,” said 
I, “certainly, — well, there must be a story 
connected with it all?” 

“Right,” exclaimed Moore; and, after 
a few silent puffs at his pipe, he began. 

“Jose Escalante, when a student in the 
University at Mexico City, became in- 


terested in the stamps of his country 
through friendship with a fellow student, 
—Santiago Garcia. It seems that some of 
Garcia’s relatives had a room in the haci- 
enda full of old letters, and Santiago, 
vacation time, spent his leisure hours 
looking them over for the stamps. There 
was about everything there, principally 
on covers. He wasn’t allowed to absorb 
the letters where envelopes had been dis- 
pensed with, so he soaked, the stamps 
off. That was the beginning. Collec- 
tors, as you no doubt are aware, are 
reborn in attics and in store-rooms, no 
matter where they first saw light. 

“There was four years of college life 
and then Jose and Santiago separated. 
Each had a fair collection of its kind; 
but a few months later, when death made 
Santiago heir to the hacienda, and its 
grounds, with wealth besides in gold, 
the college chum was summoned. Fur- 
ther search of the store-room disclosed 
the greatest rarities known to collectors, 
— the Campeche. One year of work over 
these collections was rewarded most 
richly. The room was wealth personified. 
And then the mounting, and the study, 
and the writing-up ! Other collections 
yielded their treasures, too, through the 
medium of exchange and purchase. 
Finally, both collections were merged in- 
to one. 

“Then, at the end of the year, came the 
revolt against Diaz of the Iron Hand. 
Santiago was taken out, one morning, 
blind-folded, stood against a stone wall, 
and before the smoke cleared away, he 
was at rest forever. Jose had taken no 
part in the quarrel until Diaz refused 
to intervene in the decree of death. It 
was a costly thing for that wily old 
diplomat, and led to his exile. 

“Jose owns the collection, now. He is 
in revolt against the existing govern- 
ment. Any day I expect to hear of his 
end. But, you know the Mexican, — all 
that must be, shall be. With him Fate 
rules everything.” 

Moore puffed at his pipe in silence. 
I. looked across the divide, seeing in 
vision a boy dying for a great principle. 
The sun dipped ; then it sank behind the 
foothills, and left each of us alone with 
his thoughts. 


6 


“UNTO THIS LAST.” 


NUMBER TWO. 


The Arizona summer with its heat 
had passed and the coming winter had 
begun to call the tourist from the East. 
The snow-clad peaks of Superstition 
range and the Matazals reached heaven- 
ward in forlorn visibility. I felt deso- 
late as they, for. my friend, Frevor 
Moore, had gone into the hills during 
what we called Autumn to stay until 
Spring. With him had gone a gadding 
tourist of an Englishman, — one of those 
gentlemen to whom everything is 
strange and some things worth inquir- 
ing about. It was an axiom at Willow 
to save your lies for natives, and tell 
strangers the truth. That is why I 
steered clear of the Briton. I’d have 
to lie to him if he was receptive, al- 
though it would be merely passing on 
the local items retailed to me by cow- 
puncher or sheep-herder. So I hid out, 
and saw Moore depart for the hills with 
him in tow. 

“Mr. Moore was looking for you,” 
said the red-headed girl in the post- 
office when I collected four days’ mail 
an hour after the cavalcade was out of 
sight. “He wanted you to meet his 
friend, Algeron Prince.” 

“Ha! Prince, eh? Ha!” I replied, 
somewhat testily. 

“Cheer up! You won’t be bothered 
till Spring,” said the girl, hopefully. 
“Too bad it’s so short a time.” 

That was the straw. The red-headed 
girl saw I was splashed and so she let it 
soak in. 

After this little exchange of ameni- 
ties, she was most kind and forgiving. I 
felt this intuitively; for she went so far 
as to show me His picture — a nice 
gentle cow-puncher who worked up at 
Moore’s ranch. I knew and liked him. 

Well, , I “holed up” until the snow 
melted, the winter floods passed, and 
the green showed on the mountains. 

Then it was, that, one day Moore 
came into the postoffice with his quick 
soft step, grasped my hand warmly, and 
burst out : 

“Heard the news ? Madero dead — 
murdered— and I’m afraid for Jose — 
sore afraid he’s gone out, too. I’m 
down here to get word.” 


There were letters galore, but not the 
letter. 

“No news is bad news,” declared 
Moore. “But I want you to come up to 
the ranch with me and meet my friend, 
Prince,” he continued. 

“Ha!” ejaculated the red-haired girl, 
and then busied herself amongst the 
letters. I shrunk properly. That stab 
from her was entirely unnecessary. 

“Glad — er — glad to go !” I replied ; 
and I was. So we rode forth into the 
mountains. 

At the ranch-house I was introduced 
to Algeron Prince, of London. He knew 
his Lamb and his Coleridge and his 
Keats, — and I cursed my stupidity and 
boorishness. Better than that, to me, 
just then, he knew stamps, as none be- 
sides, — while of the ways of the forger 
and the faker he was as familiar as with 
an open book. It was glorious ! And 
I’d missed it all these months! 

“Show him your collection of rari- 
ties,” suggested Moore, as he puffed at 
his pipe. 

Prince went over to Moore’s trunk, 
and pulled forth a small black volume. 

“In mourning,” he laughingly declared 
as he passed it over to me. 

I opened the book at the first page. 
The sight took my breath. Hawaii ! 
Missionaries! Eight of them! There 
was a sight for the gods ! I gloated and 
gloated ; for these were the first of those 
famous stamps I had ever seen. 

“And every one a gem, — if only they 
were perfect,” added Prince, sadly. 

I looked again. Then I took the 
book into a better light. My eyes, 
schooled as they were to search for 
skilful repairs, with difficulty discerned 
the work of an artist in every stamp. 

“Blanque! As I’m a sinner!” burst 
from my lips. 

“Yes; the greatest of them all,” said 
Prince. “There are just 229 stamps in 
that book, worth as many thousand 
pounds if perfect, every one of which 
has been repaired by that wonderful 
artist, Blanque, of Paris. One year ago 
he died. These were his legacy to me, — 
his swan-song, — the gems of his curi- 
ous collection. You knew the old man? 


7 


Not a perfect stamp in his small shop. 
Every one had been repaired by himself. 
Why, he must have restored rarities 
worth millions of pounds. Good old 
Blanque ! I can see him now, amongst 
his darlings, as he called them, — those 
ruins of rarities. He taught me to re- 
spect his art, which has died with him.” 

Prince slowly filled a pipe as I looked 
through the volume, noting the world’s 
greatest rarities made to look as good 
as the best. But always I recurred to 
the Missionaries. 

“Blanque was a character, and the 
soul of integrity, too,” said Moore. “I 
knew him fairly well the last two years 
of his life. Don’t you remember, 
Prince, how I asked him once to alter a 
common variety into a rarity? I wanted 
to use it as a joke when I went back to 
London. I can see, now, how the old 
man’s hand trembled as he took from 
his stock-book a copy of this rarity, and 
handed it to me. ‘Yours,’ he said. 1 
tried to explain. The old man waved 
me off, and went into the rear room, 
closing the door. My eye! I was in a 
stew until you dropped in and I ex- 
plained. Then I went to my pension 
until you came for me. 

“I have that stamp yet. And the 
memory, too, of an insulted and hurt old 
man. He was apology personified, I re- 
member, when you fetched me across 
Paris to him. But I never forgot it, — 
nor did he.” 


As we sat there, looking across the 
mesa, suddenly the rhythmic sound of 
hoof-beats came on the breeze from far- 
away but beating nearer. 

Moore dropped his pipe and sprang to 
the open door. We crowded the nar- 
row entry into the open. 

A solitary horseman, mounted upon a 
sorry animal, was close upon us. He 
was an Indian, and rode as if he had 
come a long distance. He was on the 
verge of falling as we caught him, 
swaying in the saddle. Moore helped 
the man indoors, and gave him water. 
He thanked us gravely, and then, look- 
ing intently at Moore, spoke slowly in 
perfect English : 

“Senor, he is dead. He sent me to 
tell you. I — I follow quickly.” 

That was all, in English. Then, in his 
adoptive Spanish, he poured forth his 
soul of love and affectionate remem- 
brance. He was the last of his tribe, — 
the last of the house where he had 
served three generations. Huerta’s men 
had trapped his master to his death with 
Madero that bloody day. Jose knew the 
end long before it came. His people 
were not ready, — the reforms were in 
advance of their time. And so that was 
the end ; that was Fate. 

That night the old man, too, slept 
into the Silence. We buried him at 
dawn, where the sun shone first upon 
the hilltop, and the evening sun last at 
night. “Faithful to the End,” we carved 
upon his headboard. 


8 


THE APOTHEOSIS OF JIMMY O’. 


NUMBER THREE. 


It was the early morning of an Ari- 
zona spring day, which is different from 
a day in spring elsewhere in the world. 
The air pulsed with heat. There was 
not a breath to raise even a grain of 
sand. Frevor Moore and I sat in the 
shadow of my tent-house at Willow, 
watching the trail which led across the 
divide to Lazy Bar ranch. 

“In an hour or so you’ll see a whirl- 
wind up there, from which eventually 
will emerge Jimmy O’., hitting the high 
spots in his burning haste to get to 
Phoenicia,” said Moore. “He will not 
be back until two months’ pay — $90 — 
has been duly added to the assets of the 
local bars, and the joys of poker have 
eaten up what he calls his hard-saved 
earnings. It’s his last chance, for elec- 
tion is coming, and the county may go 
dry.” 

We watched the trail. It was as 
Moore predicted. 

Jimmy O’. — short for O’Callaghan — 
was Irish in name and in wit. The rest 
was pure American. 

The horse was very tired, after the 
long ride, but Jimmy O’., the lust of 
strife in his bearing, was as chipper as 
usual with that somewhat cynical cow- 
puncher. 

“I’ll just hang my gun and scabbard 
here till I get back,” began Jimmy, “an’ 
the cayuse I’ll anchor till he rests a 
bit.” 

“Better leave him here till you re- 
turn,” I suggested. “The train goes in 
a couple of hours.” 

“Yes, Jimmy O’., and it will get you 
there at least an hour before you can 
ride it,” said Moore. 

Jimmy looked dubiously at us. 

“You’ll get action that much sooner,” 
cynically added Moore. 

A slow grin spread over Jimmy’s face. 

“I need it, fer I’m sure full o’ the 
milk o’ human kindness this lovely hot 
day,” declared Jimmy, as he perilously 
slanted a chair against the side of the 
tent-house, sagged into it, and began his 
monologue as he rolled the inevitable 
cigarette. 

“I knew a boy once who had a fine 
collection of tobacco tags — complete, too. 


He used to keep ’em on an album made 
of boards, detachable — sort of a walking 
lumber-yard. When he stopped collect- 
in’, he built a house o’ the boards, I’m 
told, an’ gave the tags to a can factory.” 

Jimmy rolled another cigarette and 
then added, as afterthought: “Wrote a 
mon-e-graph on the collection, too. It 
won the prize offered by the Tin Tag 
Association of the United States of 
America, Limited.” 

Jimmy grinned appreciatively at his 
humor. Moore and I were silent. Jim- 
my smoked in the calm of unruffled 
serenity. 

The train bore Jimmy away duly. 
For three days, Moore and I milled 
around town, now and then dragging 
out my old albums and swapping stories 
about “finds” we had experienced or 
read of. The morning of the fourth 
day, we sat in front of the tent-house. 

“It’s a curious thing the way stamp 
collectors scent one another,” declared 
Moore. “Reminds me of Willy Vaux- 
hall, back East. Willy was a nice, cheer- 
ful boy who, besides being an ardent 
collector of stamps, chiefly Confederate, 
had the reputation of making love to 
about a dozen girls at a time. ‘Willy,’ 
his former school-teacher confided to 
me, ‘Willy can scent a skirt farther than 
any boy I ever taught, and I’ve had 
twenty years’ experience.’ 

“‘Which one will he marry?’ I asked, 
interestedly. 

The school-teacher gave me a pitying 
look. 

“ ‘He hasn’t met her yet,’ she said. 
‘When he does you’ll get the announce- 
ment cards post-haste.’ 

“And I did. Willy collected her in- 
side six months. 

“ ‘You see, old man,’ Willy explained 
after the honeymoon, ‘Betty had a fine 
collection of Confederate States. That’s 
what brought us together. Of course’ — 
and then Willy drooled off into those 
rhapsodies we all know about.” 

Moore laughed joyously at the recol- 
lection. 

“And now,” he added, impressively, 
“there’s a promising lot of young stamp 
collectors in the Vauxhall family.” 


9 


The train arrived and departed. We 
watched it expectantly. 

“Most time for Jimmy O’, to get back, 
don’t you think ?” I ventured. 

“Today,” Moore answered. 

The afternoon was excessively warm. 
We lay down for the usual siesta. A 
slow step awakened us, and as we 
sat up, who should loom before us but 
Jimmy O’. — sad of face and sore of feet. 

Moore looked him over coldly. 

“Nice walk you had?” 

Jimmy nodded. Then he hit the olla 
frequently for ten minutes before his 
mood melted. 

“When I left here four days ago,” be- 
gan Jimmy, impressively, “I had it all 
framed up fer the usual time — a fare- 
well, maybe. But I met an old cow- 
puncher from across the Gila — Johnny 
Williams, of Swastika K. Johnny and I 
were in Ad’s place. Johnny had spent 
most all his money and he was sure 
some joyful at meeting up with an old 
friend who needed aid in relaxing a 
straining purse. While we were tellin’ 
each other all our joys, in come a 
youngish chap — lunger, I thought — with 
a big book under his arm, all wrapped 
up. He talked with the bar-tender for 
awhile. Nothing doing in the literary 
line.” 

“ ‘Come on over an’ have one with 
us,’ says Johnny, thinking the chap was 
thirsty. He came over to the table, set 
the book down with his hat on top, and 
said : 

“ ‘Thank you. I won’t drink. But — 
say — I’m sure lonesome and homesick 
and I want to know if either of you 
gentlemen has ever been in Michigan ?’ 

Johnny grabbed his hand. ‘The Lord 
love ye, lad! I was raised there — born 
an’ raised there — Ann Arbor.’ 

“The boy was from a burg he called 
Lodi, near that town. And then they 
talked an’ talked — names an’ things that 
didn’t mean anything to me. 

“ ‘An’ here we are,’ says Johnny, 
‘more than two thousand miles from it 
all!” 

“With that the boy just lay his head 
down on the table. We felt it shake. 
Johnny looked at me, his face full o’ 
grief an’ pain. I passed him my belt — 
$87.50 left o’ that $90 I set out with. 


“ ‘From the old folks at home,’ says 
Johnny joyous-like, as he hung it around 
the lad’s neck. Then we all drank gin- 
ger ale — on the house. Me, too,” and 
Jimmy O’, sighed. 

“Come to find out, the lad was dyin’ 
of homesickness, not lungs. And say! 
He couldn’t get to the train soon 
enough! Didn’t even stop to rope his 
trunk ! 

“‘It’s a loan, Johnny — a loan, and it’s 
saved my life!’ He kept sayin’ it over 
an’ over — ‘saved my life — saved my life.’ 

“Just before he got on the train he 
poked the book in Johnny’s hands. 
‘Keep it — from me — it’s all I got !’ He 
couldn’t say any more. Neither could 
we. Then he went into the car, and 
Johnny and I went back to the place 
‘whence all but him had fled.’ 

“ ‘Here ! You keep it — it’s yours,’ 
says Johnny, and he made me take the 
package. Then I walked back — fer 
discipline — fer discipline. 

Jimmy O’, passed the book to Moore, 
went over to an empty hammock, 
stretched out, and promptly fell asleep. 
Moore loosed the cord, disclosing a 
cloth-bound International. There was 
little in it besides old Germans. Then, 
like “stout Cortez” of the poem (but 
Balboa in fact) we 

“Look’d at each other with a wild sur- 
mise — 

Silent, upon a peak in Darien.” 

The German States were not com- 
plete, but there was richness. Baden 
No. 1 was unused, — a fine stamp, well- 
centered, and with large margins. The 
rest were used. Bavaria was complete, 
while Oldenburg claimed Nos. 4, 5, and 
11, with others less rare. Thurn-Taxis, 
North German Postal District, and the 
Empire made fine showings, — in fact, it 
was a notable lot of nice things. 

Jimmy O’, awoke just before sun- 
down. “Next week,” he began the mon- 
ologue impressively, “is the election. 
Jimmy O.’ goes dry. He puts his money 
in other things. Stamps, fer instance.” 

Then he turned to me, with his usual 
slow grin. 

“An’ while we’re waitin’ to grub up, 
you might lend me a copy o’ Mekeel’s 
to read. I sure do need lit’ry trainin’.” 


10 


THE ILLS OF JIMMY O’. 


NUMBER 

The streets of Willow ran yellow with 
mingled ’dobe and water. Real rain 
had fallen upon the unsuspecting earth, 
and for fully three days the sun had not 
shone, — an unprecedented thing for 
Arizona. 

“Right here is where I begin to get 
some peevish,” declared my friend, 
Jimmy O’., as he looked out upon the 
lowering sky. “Three days I can stand 
it, then I seek solitude, or I fight my 
best friends.” 

Now Jimmy O’., be it known, had 
forsaken the way of the transgressor on 
pleasure bent, via the cow-boy route, 
and was hoarding his coin-of-the-realm 
to augment his “collection,” donated — 
with the aid of $87.50 of Jimmy O’. ’s 
cash — by his bosom friend, Johnny 
Williams, of the Gila country; all of 
which has been duly set forth “in a 
previous issue,” as the magazines say. 
Jimmy O’, was just returning from a 
fortnight’s visit to Johnny, and had 
reached my shack when the skies opened. 
For three days Jimmy had soaked up 
rain and stampic information alternately. 
But Jimmy could cook, and he was 
“good company,” so I could endure a 
fortnight of him — almost — during a rain 
in Arizona. 

“Finest climate in the world,” chirped 
Jimmy. “Great country, too, until they 
put water on it. Now we’re ruined.” 

Jimmy looked as gloomy as the skies. 
He made it personal. For me, I failed 
to see wherein the ruin lay. Six or 
seven crops of alfalfa a year under irri- 
gation looked good to me. But Jimmy 
rambled on, and I knew something 
worth while was sure to follow, espe- 
cially when he began deftly with one 
hand to roll a cigarette. 

“The greatest game of baseball I ever 
saw was on Grand Island, Niagara 
River, on the 3d or 5th of July, ’89. 
There was a collection of stamps on 
third base, and every man who reached 
it had his pick free. I don’t just re- 
member who got first choice, but I 
managed to get a couple.” 

This was the point where I sat up 
suddenly. Jimmy was just 26: that 


FOUR. 

settled him. Then I remembered. 
There were some old amateur papers in 
the tent-house, vintage of the ’80’s and 
’90’s, and Jimmy had been absorbing 
them with a purpose. 

“Fine bunch o’ sports. Friends o’ 
mine, too. There was Sammy Stinson, 
who knocked always three-baggers; an’ 
there was ‘Willow,’ who never agreed 
with ‘Anti,’ and them two delayed the 
game in-or-di-nate-ly. An’ there was 
another friend o’ mine there, too, who 
was some unfortunate. He never got 
to third base.” 

Be it known, en parenthese, that on 
that day of July, ’89, both the managing 
editor of Mekeel’s Weekly and the 
humble writer of these sketches played 
in a game of base ball at the place des- 
ignated. It was a battle royal between 
the East and the West, members of the 
National Amateur Press Association. 
But there wasn’t a stamp collection on 
third base, — only a keg of water. I 
shall never forget that, for I nearly died 
of thirst. I was the old friend Jimmy 
felt sorry for! 

“It was a great convention,” continued 
Jimmy. “I think I got these two stamps 
yet.” He fumbled amongst some letters 
inside his shirt, drew forth a tattered 
envelope, and extracted a fragment of 
an approval sheet, which he passed over 
to me. 

If I sat up when Jimmy began his 
monologue, I sat up some more here 
and now, for what my eyes rested on 
were two copies of the six cents Pro- 
prietary, orange, in immaculate condi- 
tion, as like as two perfect stamps could 
be. 

“And I says to myself, last week,” 
continued Jimmy, ungrammatically, “if 
the gods are good, and I survive, I’ll 
give one o’ these souvenirs to a friend 
o’ mine who sure got less than he de- 
served at that game in ’89.” 

Whereupon Jimmy held out his hand 
for the sheet, gazed at it intently, de- 
tached the copy which he deemed the 
preferable, and passed it back to me. 
The other he poked into his breast- 
works once more, and resumed his at- 
tention to another cigarette. 


11 


“One lovely day in April,” he began 
after I had expressed my thanks, “One 
lovely day in April, as I said before — 
and it didn’t rain, either — Mr. James O’., 
for short, went to see his friend Johnny 
W. for long — say a couple o’ weeks.” 

I feared the absorption of recent mag- 
azine literature was corrupting Jimmy’s 
“style,” but he abruptly swung into his 
pace. I grew more interested. 

“Gila is all right for about nine days. 
Then you wonder if you can stand it 
four more. The wonder gets on your 
nerves. Mine, that is. Johnny and I 
wore it out on the round-up, and then 
I began to wish I had an old catalogue 
along. I took to prowling around town. 
About four days after — it was the last 
day I was there — I hit on a drug store, 
run by an old codger who’d brought his 
junk out from the East in a prairie 
schooner, and most of it was there yet, — 
vintage o’ 66. My eye ! It was funny ! 
An’ then I spotted a bottle with a 
stamp — one o’ those Father-of-His- 
Country affairs. ‘Never say die/ says I. 
‘While there’s life there’s hope. Jimmy 
O’., you’re on the verge of a great find. 
Go slow — but not too slow. Also, you 
may have to borrow money !’ 

“Say, the symptoms I developed 
would stump a horse-doctor, let alone 
a human one. Why, I had everything 
from cholera infantum to the heaves ! 
Honest! And that old Ananias aided 
and abetted me, b’ jinks! It cost me 
$ 11 . 60 — he knocked off a dollar and two 
bits when I had that acute attack of 


‘balm- for- women’ disease — according to 
the symptom book — and the stamps. I 
annexed the only two bottles he had.” 

Here Jimmy waved his cigarette hand 
at the phantom six-cents Proprietary. 
“It was real unlady-Iike of him, but I 
sure appreciated it — him making me 
think I had it bad,” declared Jimmy, 
with his humorous grin. “An’ say! I 
found when I rode on to Johnny’s, to 
say good bye, that nine o’ them bottles 
had busted on me, an’ my saddle-bags 
was sure some afloat. But I saved the 
stamps.” 

Then Jimmy proceeded to dig out 
more letters from which another sheet 
was finally extracted. And I gloated ! 
A four cents vermilion D. S. Barnes, — 
a one cent black Brandreth, perforated, 
— a two cents black, P. H. Drake & 
Co., — and a six cents orange, James 
Swaim, were among the treasures. I 
figured Jimmy had acquired about 
$ 700 . 00 , catalogue value, for his $ 11 . 60 . 

“An’ now,” said Jimmy, “as the sun 
begins to show symptoms, I reckon I’ll 
saddle up and hustle along to Three Bar 
X. You see, I fed them two bottles 
o’ that woman’s friend to a Pima buck 
who sure had a thirst. He thought it 
was a new brand o’ firewater. I bet he 
got revenge on his squaw, somethin’ 
fierce. Johnny told me they was a 
dep’ty sheriff lookin’ fer a young man 
on a pinto horse. I fear that’s my name. 
I tell you, son, you let women alone!” 

With which advice, Jimmy rapidly 
effaced himself from the borderland of 
Willow. 


12 


THE CONVERSION OF EDDY FYNE. 


NUMBER FIVE. 


The first time I saw Eddy Fyne he 
was slumbering in my hammock. On 
the ground, at his side, sat Jimmy 0.\ 
deep in a game ef solitaire. They had 
ridden in before daylight, silently staked 
out their horses, and patiently awaited 
signs of life in my shack. There was 
none, for I was asleep on my cot, the far- 
side of the tent-house, in the open. 
When I awoke, in the gray of dawn, I 
ambled around the corner of the shack. 
From the contour of Jimmy’s back, I 
knew there was something adrift in that 
brain of his besides solitaire. It couldn’t 
bode good for Jimmy’s companion. 

Eddy had a sweetly childish face, — also 
the reddest hair and the curliest I had 
ever seen. Also, he was the typical cow- 
puncher, even in sleep. 

As soon as Jimmy O.’ heard my foot- 
step, without turning his head or saying 
“hello!” he began his usual monologue. 

“As I was tellin’ my recumbent an’ 
slumberin’ friend, you are the most hos- 
pitable man off the range. You ’low us 
to occupy your best hammock; you per- 
mit me to play solitaire on the spot 
where your lawn refuses to grow; you 
let us feed an’ anchor our cayuses any- 
where we opine; you sure grub us like 
men when we ought to eat husks with 
the swine.” 

Jimmy rolled a cigarette, deftly lighted 
a match with his finger-nail, ostenta- 
tiously, however, touching it to Eddy’s 
curls, and then resumed : 

“And you let us read your papers an’ 
books an’ look at your stamps. Now 
Eddy, here, opines he hates stamps, so 
I bought a book — ‘Care an’ Feedin’ o’ 
Infants’ — when I was over in Phoenicia 
las’ month. Then I played poker with 
Eddy, loser to read the book. Nine 
games I won, so far, off Eddy. He sure 
has got the infant dope properly broke. 
Why, las’ week they was a Mex. kid at 
El Rancho Chiquita had colic or some- 
thin’— fit to die. Eddy saved his life, 
all account o’ them poker games he lost. 
I tell you, Eddy’s some doctor. Took 
charge o’ that kid’s grub an’ his ma’s 
diet an’ now — now you ought to see him 
— the kid.” 


Eddy, showing signs of awaking, Jim- 
my promptly yelled, “Yi! Yah!” in his 
ear. Eddy immediately rolled out of 
the hammock, hit the ground full length, 
gasped for breath, and finally sat up, 
speechless. 

“Some day he’ll be hammock-broke,” 
said Jimmy, with his slow grin. “Mean- 
time, seein’ he’s shed ’is gun, we’re 
safe.” 

Eddy rose slowly to his feet, was 
properly introduced and, at Jimmy’s in- 
stigation, explained why he chose the 
hammock instead of the ground for his 
slumbers. 

“You see, it’s this way. Jimmy O.’, 
here, was brought up in a hammock, 
holdin’ hands bein’ his strongest point.” 

“Yep. Poker hands,” interjected Jim- 
my O’. 

“Me, I was born on the range,” con- 
tinued Eddy. 

“Nursed by a wolf, like the Roman 
twins, which makes him so fierce,” 
grinned Jimmy. 

“An’ this hammock game continues 
new to me,” completed Eddy. 

Then Eddy looked at his disenchanter 
again, crawled in carefully, and, to Jim- 
my’s sharp — “in agin — an’ out agin” — 
promptly rolled out the opposite side, 
flop. 

“Me — I stick to the ground,” Eddy 
declared, finally, as he sagged against 
the cool sides of the water barrel. 

“So I see — so I see,” said Jimmy. 
“Which causes me to recall the time 
thet Michigan kid rode the range fer 
four months an’ four days, ’cause his 
pa owned the ranche, an’ the kid an’ he 
was some sore at each other, all on ac- 
count o’ a girl. Now the kid had ideas, 
an’ he was hammock-broke — used to sit 
in one o’ nights, an’ swing an’ swing till 
he near swung himself to sleep — him an’ 
the girl. The kid had ideas, too, as I 
said before. But — ride ! Say ! he wouldn’t 
learn horse in ’leven-teen years. Swim, 
though, like a fish, an’ always in the 
water when he wasn’t in the saddle. 
Now me — I used to swim nine strokes 
er more in my innercent youth — ” 

“ — which was innercent in a pre-vi- 
ous existence,” interpolated Eddy. 


13 


Jimmy O’, rolled another cigarette, 
lighted the match via Eddy’s hair, and 
swept on with his narrative. 

“Rio Salada is sure tame up Blue 
Point way, except in flood-time. Then 
she’s worse’n an outlaw broncho. Well, 
one morning the river come up flyin’, — 
rose ’leven feet — me on one side, with a 
big bunch o’ cattle, an’ the kid on the 
other with a big bunch o’ grub. Say! 
I near choked I was so hungry — an’ 
’leven feet o’ water only a stone’s throw 
between. Me — I know the ole Rio 
Salada. The kid don’t. Well, sir, as 
we sat there, lookin’ calm an’ pleasant 
an’ feelin’ properly unfit, along comes a 
dead sheep. Then another. Then more 
sheep. Then a burro, laigs up. 

“When I see that burro, I knew what’s 
next. An’ then, sir, along floats a herd- 
er, hangin’ to a log. 

“Now the river makes a bend half a 
mile down an’ they’s a whirlpool there. 
That herder — I knew him — he sure was 
white as any Mex. you ever see. He 
called out somethin’ an’ shook his head. 
One arm was hangin’ loose — broke — an’ 
he couldn’t do much but hang on. Me — 
I just run fer my cayuse, but the kid 
yelled at me an’ took a dive into that 
there yellow hell. I seen my best hold 
was to catch ’em at the whirl, as they 
come out — if they did. So I raced fer 
it, an’ got there just in time to see the 
kid helpin’ that Mex. by his good arm 
an’ both windin’ their laigs around that 
log. Then, sir, — well, I took plum’ sick 
to my stummick, fer they both disap- 
peared. What seemed to me ’bout a 
week er mebbe ten days later they 
popped up an’ floated off down stream, 
the kid hangin’ to that Mex. some fierce. 
That time they was both still. Me — I 
swum out on Pinto an’ got ’em. The 
Mex. was mighty grateful — and the 
kid—” 

Jimmy rocked back and forth in joy- 
ous laughter. 

“The kid ’lowed I was the one who 
was doin’ the great an’ noble — me! 


Swimmin’ ole Pinto into smooth water 
an’ towin’ them two ashore!” 

I knew the spot; also, I knew that 
half a mile below the place Jimmy O’, 
made his entry into the water, which 
ran like a mill-race, was another and a 
far worse swirl wherein was hope for 
neither man nor beast. Jimmy knew it, 
too, — only he didn’t know that I knew, — 
which is the reason he told the tale. 

Jimmy rolled another cigarette. 

“The kid an’ the Mex. an’ me there — 
we was so busy we didn’t notice the 
kid’s pa an’ a lady lookin’ on, hayin’ 
just rode up. Say, just about that time 
I had stage-fright somethin’ fierce. But 
it was all right. Pa was busy forgiven’ 
the kid — an’ the lady — say, I got the 
cards las’ week — named him Jimmy, 
too.” 

“Might send ’em the ‘Care an’ Feed- 
in’,” interpolated Eddy. 

“No, sir; you need that there book, 
’specially the care,” carromed Jimmy. 

“Nope. I yearn fer one more game,” 
said Eddy. 

“An’ fer the tenth time you read up 
on babies,” chortled Jimmy. 

“No, sir,” declared Eddy, finally; “not 
fer me. I know it all by heart, now, 
for’ard an’ back. But I tell you what — 
play you for than seven-dollar c’llection 
o’ stamps you bought off that kid in 
Phoenicia.” 

The game progressed. It was care- 
fully played on both sides — artfully as 
well, I thought, on Jimmy’s part. When 
it was ended, Jimmy’s slow grin did its 
usual stunt. 

“An’ by such unholy means are c’l- 
lecters made,” he said as he passed over 
the seven-dollar outfit. 

“Born, Jimmy O’., born,” corrected 
Eddy. “I been wantin’ that c’llection 
ever since I read that kid book fer the 
ninth time. I sure couldn’t go it ten 
an’ live. I tell you what — I’m goin’ to 
make that Mex. kid a c’llecter before he 
grows up to the age of indiscretion.” 

Then we all hit the olla for a drink of 
cool water. 


14 


THE LOST VOICE. 


NUMBER SIX. 


I had just finished tidying up in the 
two rooms and the patio of the tent- 
house when Frevor Moore swung from 
his horse and headed for the hammock. 

“Oh ! come with me and I will do 
thee good!” he chanted, gleefully, as 
we clasped hands. 

“Thank you, no : I’ve been done twice 
this morning, and a third time will sure 
make me peevish.” 

We sat in the shade while Moore 
listened to the process, all of which 
shall be another story, “spoiled in the 
tellin’,” as Jimmy O’, would say. 

“There will be a gathering o’ the clans 
this morning,” said Moore, when he 
was done laughing. “Jimmy O’, will 
arrive, eventually, with Eddy Fyne, and 
when the day gets more feverish 
Johnny Williams will amble in on that 
pinto of his. You’ll love Johnny. He 
is a college man who has sloughed his 
culture and talks Western as if he were 
to the manner born. It’s the same 
thing with Jimmy O’. That boy is an 
undergraduate of a fresh-water col- 
lege. In spots, you will recognize the 
culture he can’t suppress. Johnny is 
different, — and, by the way; you’re Ann 
Arbor born, and should know him or 
his people.” 

I raked my memory, but I could not 
recall the name, strive as I would. 

We lazed in the patio the allotted 
time. Jimmy and Eddy Fyne were late. 
When they arrived, they tied their 
weary horses to the ground, and Jimmy 
O’, began at once his usual monologue, 
where, evidently, he had left off pour- 
ing it into Eddy’s unheeding ears : 

“And say! He sure can sing! Why, 
that there Campanari who pulls ’em on 
their feet at the May Festivals can’t 
hold a candle to him. No, sir. First 
time I ever heard ’im I sat on a rock 
an’ wept real tears — me, Jimmy O’. It 
was at a Mexican kid’s funeral. No 
one there but the kid’s father an’ mother 
an’ sister an’ Eddy here an’ me.” 

“Me, too — I turned my back,” as- 
severated Eddy, shamefacedly. 

“And who,” broke in Moore, “who 
may it be that has made Campanari a 
back number?” 

“Johnny — Johnny Williams. An’ 
while we wait, might I read somethin’ 


fresh and startlin’ in the Chiny sur- 
charge column — or is it Greece today — 
or Montenegro?” 

Jimmy rummaged among my phila- 
telic papers and dug up his favorite. 
Eddy Fyne promptly fell asleep with a 
prehistoric metate for a pillow. Moore 
looked quizzically upon the somnolent 
Eddy, the literary Jimmy, and then 
sought solace in a long draught from 
the gourd at the olla. Then he lighted 
his pipe, and blew smoke rings till the 
air was full of them. 

It was past noon when Eddy woke 
up, and Moore put away his pipe as 
Jimmy O’, finished the last “ad” on the 
last page. Then we had lunch, the in- 
comparable Eddy acting as cook and 
waiter. The siesta followed, and in 
mid-afternoon, when all were refreshed 
I dragged forth the phonograph. 

Let it be known that the phonograph 
is another story, but I’ll tell it here, in 
part. It was camp property, once, held 
in common, to which a bunch of diverse 
tastes had contributed cylinders. You 
might hear the raucous voice of a bal- 
lad-singer, or the wondrous notes of a 
grand opera star; coarseness and crude- 
ness or fineness and finish ; all were 
here, all dependent upon the taste of the 
record-buyer. 

I wound and rewound the machine. 
Then finally we began the really excel- 
lent records. “II Trovatore” was the 
first, and the galaxy lengthened with 
the day. When the last was ended, I 
looked at Jimmy O’. His face was a 
study. It was the surprise of my life, — 
the face of a man who knew music and 
loved it and who, I felt in my heart, 
would lave his stained soul in it and die 
content. 

Jimmy came to me at once and 
thanked me in a voice and with a man- 
ner I would never have associated with 
the Jimmy O’, of a few hours ago. It 
was a new Jimmy O’. — for five minutes. 
Then he broke the spell : 

“Say! That sure fetched me. Haven’t 
heard music like that these last six 
years.” 

Then Jimmy dragged forth the last 
Weekly, and began to study the small 
“ads” all over again. 


15 


A rush, a clatter, and a “yip ! yip ! yi !” 
foretold the arrival of Johnny Wil- 
liams. 

As host, I hastened to the tie-rail. 
The arrival was off his horse, and just 
turning toward me. The profile ! I 
spoke the name (not Johnny Williams) 
of a once very dear friend who had 
gone out of my life utterly. It was the 
man himself as I knew him twenty-five 
years previous — and this man before me 
was not a day older. This fact came 
full force as I apologized and led the 
way back to the patio. 

The friend, I recalled, had a voice. 
He sang for the delectation of his 
friends, then in Glee Club. Before 
leaving college, he married a girl 
student in the School of Music. I left 
the old home. Next I heard of them 
in vaudeville, she as violinist, he as bari- 
tone soloist. When they were in New 
Orleans, the fever struck, and they 
went out together. 

The voice of Jimmy O’, recalled me 
from my revery. 

“An’ when yon sun sinks to his rest, 
Johnny, me an’ you an’ Eddy will show 
that phonograph that it aint all the 
music in the world.” 

This was the nearest to self-praise I 
had ever heard from Jimmy O’., and I 
knew he never was far off the trail. 

The sun touched the horizon, pur- 
pling the peaks, sank, and as the after- 
glow began to fade, the silence fell upon 
us. 

Jimmy O’, stood by Johnny, who 
leaned lightly and alertly against the 
post of the patio. Eddy lounged near- 
by. Upon the soft summer air there 
fell unheralded a breathy note, the 
“Toreador,” followed by the song in 
purest Spanish. I have heard Cam- 
panari, but never like that! It was the 
sweetest, richest, deepest, fullest bari- 
tone God ever put in mortal body ! And 
from a cowboy at $45 a month ! Why, 
he might be earning twice that sum in 
a half hour ! The song ended, and 
again silence fell. 

Then Jimmy O’, started a cowboy 
song, in which Eddy and Johnny 
joined. Eddy had a fair bass, and 
Jimmy a sweet tenor which he would 
shift to soprano when the mood pleased 
him. Then Jimmy imitated a duet, 
tenor and soprano, which was funny as 
could be and surely would have been a 
hit in vaudeville. 

An hour or so of song, then the 
silence fell again. Johnny finally broke 
it: “We’d best be going.” I begged one 
more song. It was his choice, but one 


I knew full well — and as the notes of 
“Lead, Kindly Light” rose and soared 
and died away, I was transported. It 
was her song, and his — sung many a 
night in the Athens of the West, on the 
old campus. And oh, the mist in the 
eyes, — the catch in the throat. 

“That was my mother’s favorite — 
and my father’s”, said Johnny, as he 
leaned from his horse to say good-bye. 
“You — you called me by his name. He 
wanted me to forget it. I use his 
mother’s maiden name, now, until I 
come into my own.” 

Then he rode away — rode away — 
“into his own!” 

Moore looked after the three friends 
as they disappeared into the dark. 

“Poor chap ! He’ll never sing like 
that again — and he knows it. And the 
‘glory that was Greece’ is denied him, 
even as ‘the grandeur that was Rome’ 
can never be his except in dreams. 
Poor pariah ! Sweetness and light are 
his lode-stars. — his reward ashes and 
myrrh. He has an incurable disease of 
the vocal chords, which, at times, causes 
him wholly to lose his voice. Then it 
comes back again, and his song is 
heavenly. Each time the loss is greater, 
and on the return his song grows sweet- 
er. But — tonight !” 

I thought I caught sight of a tear in 
Moore’s eye. The slow sound of hoof- 
beats came to our ears. 

It was the saddest man’s face I have 
ever seen, — the face of a man stricken, 
— which confronted us as, into the light 
of a hastily ignited candle, Jimmy O’, 
and Eddy Fyne supported the figure of 
Johnny Williams. From his lips a 
stream of crimson flowed steadily as 
the face grew whiter. We laid him 
upon my cot and succeeded finally in 
staunching the ebb of the life stream. 


It was a fortnight before Johnny 
Williams was able to be about. Tender 
nursing by his friends was responsible 
for that. Another fortnight and he was 
fit as of old, but his singing voice was 
gone utterly. Johnny was the cheer- 
fulest of the five, however. Jimmy O’.’s 
heart seemed broken, and his vein of 
humor sealed. 

It was Jimmy O’, who, the day the 
four started for Moore’s ranch brought 
forth the stamp collection referred to in 
a previous history, and, putting it in 
Johnny’s hands, said whimsically : 

“We’ll own it together, Johnny — an’ 
in hist’ry it’ll be referred to as ‘the 
famous collection of the two J.’s’.” 


16 


THE CARELESSNESS OF WILLY GROW. 


NUMBER 

“Whenever you see a four-eyed man, 
’specially the kind that anchors the bin- 
nacles back o’ the ears, do your thinkin’ 
first,” said Jimmy O’., oracularly, as he 
swung lazily in the hammock. 

Jimmy’s quizzically twisted smile 
meant another of his varied experiences, 
so I just held my tongue and waited. 

“One a minute, I’ve had ’em — experi- 
ences,” declared Jimmy, as he dug his 
boot-heel, into the dust, and set the ham- 
mock swinging. Then he began to laugh 
until I feared hysteria. 

“Reminds me o’ the time I was 
punchin’ cattle up on Wild Rye — Lazy S 
ranche. We had fer neighbor the mean- 
est man the East ever turned loose, I 
reckon. And crooked — well, he couldn’t 
turn a corner square. But he got his, 
good an’ plenty — $700 it cost him, too.” 

Jimmy felt in his shirt for his cigar- 
ette papers and his package of tobacco. 
They were missing. Then he laughed 
some more. 

“Gee ! that Mex. I lent the makin’s to 
give me the cigarette an’ kept the outfit !” 
Jimmy chortled at the trick which he had 
played so many times himself upon fel- 
low cowboys. 

“You see,” resumed Jimmy, “this fel- 
low — Old Crabapple we called him — had 
a buckskin outlaw that he’d made a 
standin’ offer of $100 to any man who’d 
ride him. 

“Not for Jimmy — that blamed outlaw 
near bit my laig off once, an’ then sat on 
my stummick for near twenty minutes — 
maybe ten — deliberatin’.” 

I laughed. Jimmy looked aggrieved. 
But he soon beamed again, and went on : 

“One day, when we were all in the 
bunk-house, playin’ solitaire or casino, or 
old maid or somethin’ — pay day being 
some remote — a man rode up on that 
same outlaw. Say, we fair fought to 
get into the clear to look him over. His 
saddle was cowboy, but some bob-tail; 
bridle, some silver; bit, more silver; and 
spurs — say, they was $90' worth o’ silver 
and work on ’em — an’ rowels big as 
dollars an’ wicked as a squaw full o’ 
tiz-vin. But he didn’t wear the spurs. 
They was tied on his saddle. I couldn’t 
figger out his make-up — not me. 


SEVEN. 

“Then I looked the man over some 
more careless-like. Overalls, new ; boots, 
medium ; shirt, new ; vest, old ; gun in 
scabbard, old, wood-handle Colt’s .45 ; 
belt, full o’ cartridges; and the gun — 
tied-down. 

“This wasn’t any tender-foot — not 
with a tied-down gun. Right there I 
begun to study him out. He wore steel- 
bow spectacles, glasses thick an’ round 
as a dollar Mex., and he had the sweet- 
est baby-like smile you ever see. Say, 
honest, I was fair scared o’ that man’s 
smile. He was too dern soft an’ easy 
lookin’ with that smile, an’ too dern 
hard-as-nails lookin’, an’ that tied-down 
gun was more eloquent than a super- 
dreadnaught. 

“Now they’s a fool in every cow-camp. 
We had more’n our share — me an’ Eddy 
Fyne. I was some slower ’n Eddy that 
time, ’count o’ doin’ the lookin’-over first. 

“ ‘Alight, stranger, an’ anchor your 
cayuse,’ says Eddy, genial-like. 

“When I see that man swing off’n that 
horse, I hiked into the bunk-house an’ 
thought hard. I couldn’t just place him, 
but anyway I was mighty glad I’d done 
my thinkin’ first. 

“ ‘I’d like to get on, here, if you 
please,’ says the man, gentle-like, to 
Eddy. 

“Me — I butted in quick : ‘Sure ! See 
the foreman.’ Then I walked him over 
to the boss, an’ he was took on. 

“Nex’ day I sure seen some ridin’ o’ 
that outlaw — plum gentle he was, too. 
An’ that new cow-hand — say ! when I 
see him drop a rope on that loco steer 
it all come back quick. Willy Grow ! 
Late o’ Wild Bill’s Wild West, where 
he was some with the rope. Me — I was 
with that outfit one consecutive night 
when me an’ ole Unc’ Billy Barr mixed 
with the outfit fer fun, an’ then beat it 
out o’ town, not drawin’ any pay. Too 
much like a circus fer me — them idiots 
applaudin’ when Unc’ Billy’s saddle 
turned an’ the bronchos near tromped 
him. 

“As I was sayin’, Willy was some 
puncher. He stayed with us till the end 
of the round-up. Then, when he drew 
his pay, we explained how ole Crab- 


17 


apple had offered $100 to any man who’d 
ride that cayuse. Seven of us fixed it 
up. Funny thing about that outlaw. 
Willy’d go up to him an’ fuzzle his ears 
with some kind of ceny, meeny, miny, 
moo gibberish an’ tell ’im to be good an’ 
he’d be good. Then anyone could ride 
’im. 

“Well, as I was sayin’ when you inter- 
rupted me, one likely mornin’ we saddles 
up an’ goes over to ole’ Crabapple’s. 

“ ‘Mornin’,’ says he, some polite an’ 
gentle, lookin’ at our guns, for we’d tied 
’em all down. Me — I had two, an’ Eddy 
had swiped cook’s knife. Would a 
swiped another, only cooky yelled like 
you was stealin’ candy. 

“‘Mornin,’ says Willy, sweet an’ soft. 
Say, ole’ Crab was mad inside, fer he 
knew we meant some devilment. But 
he sure was polite as buckwheat cakes. 

“ ‘We hear tell you’ve offered a premi- 
um fer any one who’ll ride this here 
cayuse I paid you forty for,’ says Willy, 
cheerful-like. 

“‘Not now,’ says Crabapple. ‘You’ve 
broke him.’ 

“ ‘All right,’ says Willy. ‘Bet you $100 
you can’t stay with him ten minutes.’ 

“Ole Crab swells up some at that, an’ 
goes to it. Willy fuzzles the outlaw’s 
ears, first, me feelin’ some mad at him, 
fer I sure wanted ole Crab to enjoy the 
run he’d get fer his money. 

“Now ole Crab could ride, an’ fer 
nine minutes it was easy. 

“Then he made a fatal error. 


“ ‘I get the $100, — what ?’ says he. 

“Willy just grinned. The minute old 
outlaw heard that voice, he cut loose. 
With ten seconds to go he sure eats up 
ole Crab. I’ve seen ’em shook up some, 
but this scared me. The last pitch, an’ 
Crab hit the ground in a heap — five 
seconds too soon to win the century. 

“Crab was madder’n all get out. 

“ ‘No man can stay with ’im,’ he yells. 
‘I’ll bet you $100 a piece.’ 

“ ‘You’re on,’ says Willy, that quick. 

“Me— I was first. Tell you what, I 
’most prayed. I sure wanted to lose that 
$100 right fast. Thought it was my last 
day this side o’ — er — heaven.” 

Jimmy doubled up with mirth. 

“Ole outlaw was plum’ gentle my 
twelve minutes. They was seven of us. 
Twelve minutes a-piece strung it out 
some. Ole Crab yells fraud, but Willy 
looks hard an’ reaches fer his gun. 

“‘No checks go,’ says Willy, ‘Cash 
down, and we get it in gold.’ 

“Now ole Crab had sold his steers the 
day before, an’ Willy timed it right. So 
Crab pays over the $700, and never yells 
no more. 

“An’ what do you think Willy done 
with his? The bloomin’ idiot goes down 
to the river and throws them five twenty- 
dollar gold pieces in, one at a time, jest 
like a kid, watchin’ ’em skip, me standin’ 
by with my mouth open. 

“ ‘Oh, thunder !’ says Willy, when the 
last one’s gone. ‘Who wants that kind 
o’ money? Come on, let’s go over an’ 
look at Moore’s stamp c’lection’.” 


18 


THE WETNESS OF 



WILLOW. 


NUMBER EIGHT. 


Jimmy 0\ had quit the range cold and 
taken a surprisin’ interest in things ur- 
ban, which was sure some puzzlin’. For a 
fact, I couldn’t stand the strain of it, 
and so one evening I put the question 
plainly. 

Jimmy O’, looked at me with his 
whimsical smile. 

“Well, I’ll tell you. I jest wanted to 
mill around awhile an’ git my bearin’s. 
Sort o’ lookin’ before you leap, you 
know. An’ besides — besides — ” 

Mirth shone in the eyes of Jimmy, and 
Laughter gurgled in his throat. That 
somewhat under control, he went on: 

“An’ on the 30th day of May, which 
same bein’ Memorial Day — er — Dec’ra- 
tion Day, gen’rally, fer Jimmy O’., you’ll 
know all about it. Till then you don’t 
want to be able to know anythin’ — 
leastways, not too much. 

“An’ what I’m tellin’ you thus far is 
‘on the square,’ an’ in confidence,” added 
Jimmy, as he lit a cigarette and bid me 
adios. . . . 

The 28th of May, and Jimmy has been 
here five days. Tomorrow the “friends, 
Romans, and feller-citizens” of Willow 
vote wet or dry. I am for dry; and 
Jimmy O’, has been dry so long he 
rattles like a locust. But, then, there 
are others in Willow that hates, scorns, 
and despises everything dry, from demi- 
johns to real estate; them as cry aloud 
for the irrigation of man’s inner works 
especial. 

Signs posted around the town of Wil- 
low blatantly set forth the great pros- 
perity forthcoming if the wets prevail. 
One-third of the voting population is 
Mormon, and that people are (glory 
be!) for a dry town. Of the remaining 
two-thirds, — moisture has ’em lashed to 
the mast. But there’s the Unknown 
Quantity, — the woman vote, — Arizona 
allowin’ the petticoats to step up to the 
ballot-box for the first time since born. 

A perfect day ushered in the battle. 
About dawn wets and drys began to 
arrive, in wagons and on horseback. 

When I went forth at 9 o’clock to 
exercise the rights of a citizen of these 
States, I was attracted to a crowd near 


the postoffice, listening to a burst of 
oratory from a voice which, though not 
wholly natural, seemed familiar as my 
hat. 

“Some lit up, eh? Wonder w’ere ’e 
got it ?” said a native, as an opening in 
the crowd, disclosed Eddy Fyne, clinging 
to a telegraph pole with one arm, and 
sawing the atmosphere with the other, 
hiccuping “wet town an’ prosperity” — 
“million dollar hotel” — “shame to rob a 
man of right to drink,” etc. 

Right then the marshal came along, 
and Eddy, who knew him as an old time 
cow-puncher, shook hands effusively and 
wandered off, talking to himself and 
colliding with a number of the most re- 
spectable electorate, male and female, 
who made disrespectful remarks along 
his wake. 

I cast my ballot and came forth. An- 
other crowd. This time it was Jimmy 
O’, and one of the boys from Three-Bar- 
X trying to sing a duet, “There’ll Be a 
Hot Time.” It was such a bad duet, 
too. It shocked my system, and I am 
some hardened. 

So the day passed, Eddy and Jimmy 
and the Three Bar-X boys sure enjoying 
this last day-of-grace. In my soul I 
grieved for them — for Jimmy, in par- 
ticular, who, I thought, had given up 
the bottle for the stamp album. Jimmy’s 
come-down hurt so much that I was too 
peeved to return home at once, but 
grubbed out. However, when I learned 
Willow was dry by seven votes, it 
helped a heap ; and after the streets had 
some quieted down from the unusual 
stress I hiked along the trail leading to 
the tent-house. 

I groped my way to the door. From 
the room behind came the discordant 
noise of heavy snores. I confess to be- 
ing somewhat riled. The boys were 
welcome — more than welcome — but in 
my soul I felt the hospitality which I 
had extended was surely being strained 
today. I found the door-handle, and 
hanging to it a bit of paper. A match 
disclosed a note from Frevor Moore : 

“Don’t get peevish. Jimmy O’, will 
explain.” 


19 


I thought hard for two minutes, then 
opened the door. 

By the light of two candles, stuck os- 
tentatiously in empty grape-juice bottles, 
I saw Eddy Fyne, Johnny Williams, and 
the two punchers from Three Bar- 
X, “clothed and in their right minds,” 
deep in a game of “muggins,” with my 
ancient and favorite set of dominoes, 
while at the near-by table sat Jimmy O’., 
intently studying out some Sarawak 
perforations, the zest of the real col- 
lector on his face. 

The snores came from the cowboy 
from ranch J-Bar-5, who was carefully 
laid out on a bench in the center of the 
room, candles stuck in other empty 
grape-juice bottles at head and feet. 

Jimmy O’, looked up. 

“Willow has gone dry by seven votes,” 
I said slowly, and, I hope, with suffi- 
cient solemnity. The domino-players 
did not even glance my way. 

“Seven? Seven?” repeated Jimmy, 
wonderingly. “Should have been six, 
if”— 

Then he looked the boys over. His 


laugh was full of the joy of victory as 
his eye lighted on “the corpse.” 

“Oh, Jiminy!” said Jimmy, when he 
could speak. “This was vote No. 7, — 
an’ we all thought he was wet he was 
so plumb lit up. He might a’ caravan’d 
the Sahara fer a hundred years an’ 
never squeaked fer water.” 

Then the light broke in upon me. It 
was all for effect, — this horse-play by 
five reckless cow-punchers, bent on 
making respectable the town where 
their friend lived. I was touched, and I 
wanted to thank them. But, knowing 
cowboy character, I could do nothing 
but keep silence. 

“We couldn’t let you in,” Jimmy ex- 
plained. “You live here. This bunch 
o’ people will cool off an’ be glad they’re 
dry — but not now. They’d make you 
miserable fer a spell, first. Now that 
it’s on them, they’ll yell that it’s on you.” 

“Muggins!” jubilantly shouted Eddy 
Fyne, as the game broke up, “I win the 
corpse. We sure need another hand up 
at the ranche, an’ maybe I c’n make a 
stamp c’lector outen him yet !” 


20 


JIMMY O’.: HEALTH-RESTORER. 


NUMBER NINE. 


‘You see, Eddy is now a lit’r’y feller. 
He’s bought a book. Him buyin’ one 
sure makes th’ presses run overtime t’ 
meet th’ future demand.” 

Jimmy O’, swung slowly in the ham- 
mock which welcomed the passing and 
passive cow-puncher, while Eddy lazed 
upon the earth at his mentor’s feet. 
Jimmy had won the hammock by ‘‘stickin’ 
out ov his tongue,” as Eddy lugubriously 
described the foot-race from the spot 
where the inseparables had anchored 
their cayuses. The rush of hurrying 
feet had brought me to the door of the 
tent-house. One look was enough. 
There was never need of haste when 
Jimmy O’, and Eddy were safely 
stretched out. 

“Now this here book o’ Eddy’s, it’s 
sure some book.” 

Jimmy sat up, rolled the inevitable cig- 
arette, and began to kill the rose-bugs on 
my American Beauties. In fact, any- 
thing that came in range of Jimmy’s 
tobacco — “hand-grown by hand,” as he 
phrased it — was doomed to death. 

“Some book,” repeated Jimmy O’. 
“Gent o’ th’ name o’ — well nev’ mind his 
name. He want anyways responsible fer 
the name — on’y fer the book. This here 
gent, ’e says, says ’s Bang! bang!’ an’ 
two more is rubbed out’.” 

I was interested enough then to peep 
at the title which Eddy obligingly dis- 
played, while Jimmy vanished in a cloud 
of home-grown. 

Eddy was reading “The Monitor of 
Health.” 

I went back into the shack and finished 
my work. 

“As I was sayin’ w’en you made fer yer 
gun,” resumed Jimmy O’., upon my re- 
appearance, “you c’n pick health off’n 
any bush in Arizona — ’cept one o’ them 
jumpin’ cactus. Reminds me o’ th’ time 
that there Easterner paid me four a day 
fer ’leven days t’ go an’ hunt w’at ’e 
called cacti. Cacti! O heck! If I’d 
used language like that up on th’ range, 
the boys ’ud a roped an’ tied me — sure 
would. I wouldn’t git nary one t’ speak 
t’ me fer a month — maybe two.’’ 

“Alas ! That them dear days aint here 
now 1” interpolated Eddy. 


“Quotin’ that there master mind now 
reposin’ in ’is lef’ hand,” added Jimmy 
O’, to the student of “The Monitor of 
Health.” 

“Well, this here Boston chap got ’bout 
sixty-nine kinds o’ cactus, more er less, 
but one he sure lacked. Said the In- 
dians made booze of it afore th’ white 
men come. Now me — I don’t care fer 
that kind. Ever tell ye ’bout the time 
that ole ’pache give me tiz-vin mixed 
with water?” 

“Fer w’y the water?” queried Eddy. 

Jimmy ignored the jibe and ambled on : 

“Well, ’e told me hit was plumb good 
fer my insides. Sure. W’en I come to 
I was leventeen miles from nowhere — 
me an’ that ’pache, him lookin’ sad as a 
prospector’s burro with all the flour re- 
cent et up. And say!” 

Jimmy O’, doubled up with mirth. 

“W’at d’ye know ’bout this? Seems 
we’d been playin’ monte an’ I’d won ’is 
pony an’ ’is trappin’s — saddle, bridle, an’ 
all ; an’, by heck ! I was likewise th’ 
owner o’ his squaw I” 

“Reg’lar lady’s man — Jimmy,” declared 
Eddy. 

“Now me — I couldn’t stan’ fer that 
there squaw game. No, sir — not me. 
But say! She didn’t seem to care a 
whop. But me — I sure sweat blood. 
Then I tole that ’pache, bein’ a dear 
frien’ o’ his’n, I’d stake ’im fer another 
go. He won back ’is pony — an’ ’is trap- 
pin’s — but derned ef ’e didn’t buckup at 
th’ squaw. She was las’ — an’ me — I 
sure leaked another bucket o’ blood. 
W’en ’e fin’ly won ’er back — me havin’ 
t’ stack th’ cyards — I jes’ nach’ly climbed 
aboard my cayuse an’ faded — never lef’ a 
shadow.” 

“Never even tried to make c’llecters of 
’em,” said Eddy, with a grin. 

Jimmy rolled another cigarette, and 
then resumed. 

“Well, this here Boston man brung 
along w’at ’e called a sleepin’ bag. First 
off, he ondresses, puts on a long nighty” — 

“Alas ! perturbed spirit !” wailed Eddy. 

“Then he crawls inter that there 
sleepin’ bag. Me — I buttons ’im in, all 
nice an’ tidy, ev’ry night. An’ ev’ry 
mornin’ I lets ’im out.” 


21 


“Some vally, Jimmy O’.,” declared 
Eddy. 

“Well, this night ’e went inter ’is bag 
an’ I buttons ’im in. I aint much more’n 
rolled up w’en buzz-zz-zz goes a di’mon’- 
back. Mr. Boston he heers it too. An’ 
say! That there bag fairly reared up! 
He beat a sack-race fer pure fun. Me — 
I rolled an’ laffed till I was sore — that 
there di’mon’ back singin’ all th’ time. 

“ ‘Lemme out !’ yells Boston, muffled- 
like. ‘They’s a rattlesnake in th’ sack! 
He’s bit me laig!’ 

“He want, though. I seen ’im coiled 
’bout four feet from the sack. Well, I 
ups an’ shoots ’is head plum off — the 
snake’s. But Boston, ’e was so all-fired 
scairt ’e never heard my gun go off. 

“‘Yer discharged!’ he yells, voice like 
a man wit’ his head in th’ feed-bin. Gee ! 
I was glad! I was plum’ sick o’ that 
there button-in game anyways. So I 
says, good an’ loud : ‘A’right — goo’bye,’ 
an’ made as if I was goin’ away. Then 


I kep’ still an’ never budged. Say — the 
sack was quiet, too — him in it. W’en I 
onbuttoned ’im ’e’d fainted clean away. 

“Well, ’e cum to, o’ course — called me 
’is preserver — an’ said ’e guessed ’e’d 
got enough cacti an’ experience — mostly 
experience. Me — I sure swelled up some 
then an’ begun t’ feel I was mostly hu- 
man again.” 

“Mos’ — but not quite yet, anyways,” 
suggested Eddy. 

“Well, w’en ’e got back t’ Boston they 
was a long piece in th’ paper ’bout him 
an’ me. It was sure funny. Now say ! 
I b’leeve I’ll send ’im a book !” 

Eddy promptly closed the “Monitor” 
and passed it over. 

“Oh, heck, no!” said Jimmy waving 
aside the gift. “ ’Is health is all right. 
He said in that there piece that me an’ 
Arizony was the great health-restorers.” 

Then Jimmy O’, and Eddy fled down 
the path, mounted their horses, and 
vanished. 


22 


THE PASSING OF THE COLLECTION. 


NUMBER TEN. 


The summons had come. I was on 
my way into the hills. The trail was 
long, and my return was at least three 
days distant. I did not like to leave 
the tent-house and its household gods 
alone, but there was no one with whom 
I felt free to entrust its treasures. The 
gods are sometimes good, — and this, op- 
portunely, was one of the times. 

The notes of “Old Heidelburg” were 
wafted on the summer breezes. The bass 
and tenor were known to me. I felt a 
seemly elation, for the mingled voices 
meant safety for the tent-house. 

Around a bend in the trail came Jim- 
my O’, and Eddy Fyne, riding slowly 
and singing somberly. They finished. 
Then came a cheerful roar of greetings. 

“An’ t’ think o’ us wastin’ our sweet 
strains on the desert air was bad 
enough,” began Jimmy O’., “ ’thout their 
bein’ desecrated by listenin’ ears f’om 
the environs o’ Willow.” 

“Oh, heck! Jimmy, cut andiron lan- 
gwige and let’s find out sumthin’,” said 
Eddy, disgustedly. 

I explained my errand into the hills, 
passed over the keys of the shack, and 
went my way. 

At the end of three days, upon my re- 
turn, I found the tent-house spotless. 
The twins had been thorough. Even 
my much-loved and carefully treasured 
books had been dusted individually by 
hands which I knew must be Jimmy 
O’.’s, — for he loved books and handled 
them in a manner that betokened rev- 
erence. 

Half an hour later Jimmy O’, and 
Eddy came up the path. 

“I had a horse once I thought a heap 
of,” began Jimmy, after the first greet- 
ings were over and he had settled into a 
soft spot on the ground. The hammock 
had been abandoned to me. “That horse 
sure would turn on a half dollar. One 
time, I went into this here town o’ Willow, 
an’ one o’ them Evans school boys f’om 
back in Boston saw that there horse and 
’lowed he’d own ’im. Me— I sure 
needed about $60 that day, an’ I sol’ 

>• 1J 

im. . , T 

Jimmy lighted his cigarette, and 1 
saw him no more for five minutes. But 
his voice came out of the cloud. 


“Nex’ day I felt some lonesome — me 
with a new horse I paid ’leven dollars 
for, plannin’ to break ’im. He sure kep’ 
me busy fer a while — that new cayuse o’ 
mine. But I fin’ly gits ’im good. Not 
havin’ ’im on my mind is bad fer me. I 
kep’ thinkin’ o’ that there cayuse I sold 
t’ th’ Evans boy.” 

“Well, I seen th’ boy, awhile later. 
He sure treated that horse o’ mine fine, 
but he wa’nt ridin’ th’ range, an’ I knew 
poor ol’ Pinto was sure lonesome. He 
hears my voice, an’ whinners. Say! I 
sure thought then I was lots worse’n 
Judas. 

“Well, I hung aroun’ that town, off 
an’ on, till school closes. The boy ’lows 
he’ll ride up t’ Flag, ’ith me fer guide, 
an’ as reward I gits ol’ Pinto back fer 
keeps.” 

Here Jimmy became visible again. 

I began to get the drift. I had sent 
my collection of stamps away back East 
to be sold — joyously, at the first; then 
later, when I began to miss them, re- 
gretfully; now remorsefully. Bitterly I 
repented. But the ones most loved had 
passed forever, and the rest had lost 
their identity so far as the old album 
was concerned. It was the need of the 
passing hour which had caused the 
transfer. 

“You, see, if th’ boys had a-known,” 
continued Jimmy O’., “I could a-got any- 
thin’ f’om them any time. But I wasn’t 
peepin’ — not me. So I jest pays the 
penalty, and suffers along. But I got 
ole Pinto back.” 

We went into the house. Eddy was 
silent. He looked like a hired mourner, 
and anything I said fell flat. Jimmy O’, 
was maker of the conversation. 

“I’m mighty glad t’ see th’ lib’ry,” re- 
sumed Jimmy, from the confines of the 
easy chair. “Now that there set o’ the 
ol’ ‘American Journal’ — an’ them there 
Trifet’s ‘Mercury’ — an’ that Kline’s 
third edition — well, when I see them, I 
says to Eddy, ‘Maybe he had a aberra- 
tion, like me th’ time I sells Pinto.’ Ed- 
dy he thinks so, too.” 

Eddy grunted assent. 

“But, friend o’ ourn, w’y didn’t yo’ say 
sumthin’? Here we are — Moore an’ 


23 


Eddy an’ me — just plum’ loco with 
money. We’d a staked you.” 

I explained the passing years, — the 
fact that I was no longer young, — that 
my journalistic labors were not so pro- 
ductive as of old, — all the specious pleas 
I could muster. But they fell flat. The 
boys thought they had been treated un- 
fairly. 

“When you was gone, I made another 
c’llecter,” began Jimmy. “He was that 
sick he’d ’bout given up ever’thing but 
the ghost — which wouldn’t walk. Said 
he’d sell out an’ quit. Me — I staked 
’irn. ’E’s gone up on th’ range now.” 

“Arizony’s plum’ full of ’em, now — 
c’llecters,” interpolated Eddy, breaking 
the silence for the first time. 

“This here chap got off’n the train, 
feelin’ blue as a whetstone. I see he 
was one o’ them down-an’-outers, an’ I 
jest nacherly warmed up ter ’im,” re- 
sumed Jimmy. 

“ ‘Son,’ I says, ‘the world’s all 
right, but, for the love o’ Mike! ain’t 
some o’ the folks in it plum’ ornery ?’ ” 

“He kind o’ grinned, then he ups an’ 
tells me all about it — after I’d towed ’im 
up here t’ th’ hummock. Same ol’ story. 
Lungs no good — had t’ throw up ’is job 
— newspaper man, too — name o’ Milton 
Ray. Said he’d known you an’ Maxy 
Solyman, back East, on a paper you-all 
worked on. Maxy he c’lected, too, ’e 
says.” 

I knew the boy as a success and as a 
very hard worker, — knew, too, the old 
agonies of mind and body which the 
poisoned air of that death-trap building 
had brought to many of us. Five of my 
co-workers were dead and of the old 


guard none now remained with the 
paper. The sorrow of it! 

“Well, he’s ridin’ range, now, an’ eatin* 
three, and prayin’ fer a sight o’ the ‘ole 
familiar faces.’ You’ll see ’im w’en you- 
all gits up t’ Three-Bar-X ag.in.” 

Eddy showed signs of animation. He 
poked around his roll of bedding for a 
moment, then pulled out a long black 
covered little book, in which I knew he 
carried a few of his choicest treasures 
mainly “on entire.” He passed it over 
without further words. 

I opened it. There were a five cents 
New York postmaster’s stamp, on origi- 
nal, — fine margins ; a five cents Confed- 
erate, of a beautiful shade of olive. It 
was slightly damaged in one corner ; but 
it was a rarity. It too was on original. 
And, wonder of wonders and beyond 
compare ! My eyes opened wide — for 
there was the only ninety cents 1869 I 
had ever heard of on entire, — a bright, 
beautiful copy, very light cancellation. 
It was on one of those long yellow, en- 
velopes, which lawyers use for mailing 
documents, and the seal and tape had 
been preserved intact. 

Jimmy did not look at me, 1 — nor Eddy. 

“Where — where did it come from, 
Eddy?” I asked, at last, — for the post- 
mark was my native city, and the hand- 
writing and address were most familiar. 

“He sent it — that chap Jimmy O’, an’ 
Johnny Williams staked ’long time ago, 
— that homesick chap f’om Lodi. Said 
he’d sent this fer mem’ry’s sake,” said 
Eddy. “An’ so, friend o’ ourn, we start 
ye all over agin, — you c’n c’lect entires !” 

And, turning deaf ears to my exclama- 
tions, Jimmy O’, and Eddy Fyne joy- 
ously arose and started back to the 
range. 


24 


THE MOTORCYCLE AND THE COWBOY. 

NUMBER ELEVEN. 


The Heavenly Twins rode into the 
frontier town of Willow amid a cloud 
of dust for which they were in no wise 
responsible. It was one of those hot 
days of August when the mercury, 
lingering all too long around the 110° 
mark, was about to be cajoled into 
a lower range by the aftermath of the 
rainless wind storm. This sand-storm 
always was followed by a cool wind 
which, as an old timer announced, “kem 
’cross the mouth o’ th’ pit, but somehow 
hit a corner o’ heaven before arrivin’ on 
this yere earth.” This, while per- 
haps not strictly orthodox, was very 
satisfying to the denizens of Willow. 

All morning I had been sitting in 
front of the tent-house, trying to inter- 
est myself in the news of the philatelic 
world. The Twins saved the rest of the 
day. Jimmy O.’ and Eddy Fyne had 
been christened the Heavenly Twins by 
a jeering cowboy who had found a pre- 
historic novel up in the bunkhouse. He 
said Jimmy and Eddy deserved the 
name, ever since they raised the other 
thing in the bar of the Frontier House 
the night before the town went dry. 

Be it known, then : sixty-eight dol- 
lars’ worth of glassware was demol- 
ished in as many seconds by the twins, 
for the reason, solitary and sole, that 
they had just sixty-eight dollars between 
them, which they had brought into town 
to spend in true cowboy style. 

“Real money, too,” declared Eddy, 
joyfully, as he paid it over. 

I have seen some handy work with a 
gun, but Eddy, according to an eye- 
witness, had all records — and glassware 
— broken hopelessly. He shot with either 
hand, and with both hands; and then, 
with back toward the target and face 
toward the mirror. But, miracle of 
miracles, blindfolded, he did some fancy 
shooting that made one feel crawly. 
Among other stunts, Jimmy stood 
against a partition door, while Eddy 
made a silhouette of bullet-holes around 
his body. I have the souvenir at the 
shack, where interested tenderfeet gaze 
and gaze. Someone told the first-comer 
Eddy did it standing on his head — 
which fiction Eddy ignored. 


“Me— I c’n shoot a hole in a barn 
door — if some one moves the door,” de- 
clared Jimmy, as he rolled the inevi- 
table cigarette and proceeded to repoison 
the whole of out-of-doors. “But Eddy 
— why, Eddy couldn’t miss a mark if he 
was chokin’ t’ death.” 

Eddy grunted unhappily. Fie never 
approved the praise from the other 
Twin. 

“You ought to see Jimmy rope!” 
broke in Eddy. Whereupon Jimmy im- 
mediately fell silent. 

Jimmy picked up a philatelic paper. 

“My fav’rite readin’ — the Weekly,” 
declared Jimmy, as he buried his nose 
in the pages of the latest issue. 

I went into the tenthouse. A few 
minutes later, when I returned, the 
Twins were gone. 

Shortly after their disappearance, the 
chug-chug of a passing motorcycle was 
accentuated by the poison of its gases 
which drifted with the breeze. The en- 
suing silence was broken by its return, 
and the calm of Willow mid-afternoon 
became a confused clamor of the jeers 
of the rider and the curses of cowboys 
intermingled with the pounding of hoofs 
and the snorts of frightened horses. I 
ran down the path. The motorcyclist 
was circling the Twins, whose horses 
were giving a fine exhibition of rearing, 
side- jumping, and bucking that would 
have been the joy of an Eastern boy’s 
heart. 

The town marshal sidled up to me. 

“Fun fer th’ boys,” he said, with a 
grin. 

“Fun, nothing!” I replied, rather 
forcefully. “That fool will have them 
both killed yet.” 

The marshal guffawed, responding 
that I probably did not know the Twins. 
On which I pondered and awaited 
events. 

Then a great light broke upon me. 
The cyclist had tried this stunt before — 
but not with the Twins. They had 
heard of it, undoubtedly, and the trip 
into Willow followed. 

Things began to happen immediately, 
the Twins were holding their horses 
down, and getting ready their riatas. 


25 


The cyclist sensed trouble, and swung 
into a straight run for safety. It was 
too late. Jimmy’s arm swung. The 
rope soared, settled, and the cyclist 
flew up Main street at the end of forty 
feet of riata and a loping horse, two 
blocks and return. Part of the time, of 
course, he did not fly. Times he looked 
like an aeroplane; times he looked some 
like a gopher and all the time he sure 
was gettin’ some messin’ up. 

Not to be outdone, Eddy roped the 
motorcycle. The engine was still run- 
ning on slow. Eddy started down the 
street as Jimmy went up, forty feet of 
rope towing two hundred pounds of 
irate motorcycle. 

The marshal and I leaned against 
each other and laughed ourselves sore, 
for the motorcycle, jerked upright, im- 
mediately began a pursuit of Eddy 
which several times threatened to be 
successful. And Eddy’s horse! It sure 
missed every other high place. Eddy 
made a circle of the block, the motor 
dragging or pursuing, until a convenient 
telephone pole enabled the champion to 
encircle it, dismount, and tie. 

Eddy looked reproachfully at the ma- 
chine, now quiescent. Then he laughed 
and laughed some more. 

“Oh Lordy! Plum’ scared me nigh 
to death — an’ ole pinto — he sure thought 
he war a goner !” 

Jimmy, meantime, had paused long 
enough to enable his captive to shed the 
rope. The cyclist was a sight. His 
clothes were in rags, his face and hands 
bruised and bloody, but in his eyes the 
unquenched fires. He stood his machine 
against the telephone pole. Then, at my 
invitation, he came up the path to the 
tent-house to wash up, the Twins fol- 
lowing at a discreet distance. 

The Twins watched him get present- 
able. The bruises were only minor, but 
the clothes were a ruin. 


The cyclist turned an observing eye 
upon the Twins. Then a slow grin 
broke over his face as he put out his 
hand. 

“Say! honest! I am all kinds of a 
fool, aren’t I? This time I got some 
sense dragged into me. Much obliged — 
I sure am !” 

The Twins grinned and shook hands. 

The cyclist stooped to pick up a little 
flat case which had fallen from the 
pocket of his ruined shirt. It opened. 
Three stamps fell out. He carefully 
gathered them out of the dust, and 
looked at them apprehensively. Jimmy’s 
jaw fell. Eddy’s did likewise. Their 
four eyes bulged. 

“Gee ! He’s a collector !” began 
Jimmy. 

“Fi’ cents black — New York per- 
visionals o’ 45 !” declared Eddy. 

The cyclist opened his eyes several 
degrees. “Why — why — ■” he began. 

“Yep,” broke in Jimmy. “Both on us.” 

Then we sat down for a pow-wow. 
He was a middle-western boy out for 
his health in this land of sunshine. 
Yes, he had his collection with him. 
Yes, he’d bring it over. In fact, he’d 
go get it now out of his trunk at the 
Frontier House. 

He looked expectantly at the two 
cow-punchers. They rose promptly. 
Just as the trio started down the path, 
Jimmy turned to me and said in his old 
whimsical way : 

“Henceforth we’ll be no more known 
as the Heavenly Twins, but the Three 
Musketeers.” 

I walked to the street in their wake. 
The three linked arms, the cyclist in the 
middle. They turned the corner and 
were lost to view. But of their further 
progress I was assured. Eddy’s voice 
came back. 

“An’ that there other N’ York — was 
it th’ one wit’ double line at bottom? I 
didn’t quite see.” 


26 


HIS TATTERED DARLINGS. 


NUMBER TWELVE. 


“Come on, Eddy ! I’ve foun’ another !” 

The irrepressible Jimmy O’, dashed 
up the path to the tent-house, to arouse 
the slumbering Eddy Fyne, who had 
taken to the hammock after an all-night 
ride in the heat of an Arizona August. 
Eddy refused to awake. Jimmy glared 
at the recumbent form, and then turned 
to me with his usual grin : 

“Eddy jest nacherly don’t care a whop 
about c’lecters. He sure is some Rip 
Van Winkle, is Eddy.” 

Jimmy thereupon dragged “the makin’s” 
from his overalls, and when fairly 
aflame, stretched out near the olla. 

“You see, I was down t’ th’ train this 
mornin’ early, w’en who should pile off 
but a thin party with spectacles an’ one 
o’ them things Columbus carried w’en 
’e discovered Arizony — telescope, ye call 
it — one o’ th’ kind ye keep clo’es in.” 

Jimmy laughed. 

“Yes, sir; ’e stepped off an’ onto a 
piece o’ banana peel. Me — being Prov’- 
dence in disguise — I grabs ’im as ’e 
slithers tow’ds th’ wheels, which still 
goes roun’ some slow. And I discovers 
’im at th’ right time. Sure.” 

Jimmy waved his free hand, and 
chancing to find a nice Arizona agate 
which I had carefully laid aside for a 
friend “back East,” heaved it at Eddy. 
The resounding boom! as it carromed 
off Eddy’s fourth rib was music in 
Jimmy’s ears. 

“As I was sayin’, when Eddy here in- 
terrupted me,” resumed Jimmy O’., “this 
gent wit’ the spectacles declares he’s 
under obligations. I mills around wit’ 
him fer a few hours, or less, an’ then he 
says, lookin’ all aroun’, ‘where’s the 
postoffice?’ We goes over. He asks 
fer ’is mail, and gets it. He sure had a 
nice bunch, too. And say! W’at d’ye 
think? Some of it was f’om Boston — 
‘where I was broke in the Fall of ’99’ — 
also one other time I’ll tell you about 
some day. Well, he hikes over t’ th’ 
hotel, me towin’ along. Then he sets 
down, ’scuses hisself, and opens ’is 
mail. 

“Right then I seen he was there with 
th’ grip. ’E’d sure ‘traveled in th’ East,’ 
an’ he knew f’om w’ence ’e came. 


“ ‘Jiminy !’ says I ; ‘If you ain’t a 
brother o’ ourn, I’m sure ’way off th’ 
trail.’ 

“Well, we sits there an’ powwows, an’ 
I up an’ tells ’im I had a couple frien’s 
in town who’d like t’ know ’im. I’m t’ 
look ’im up, wit’ this here beauteous 
sleepin’ princess, an’ bring ’im over here 
’safternoon. Come on, clam !” 

Jimmy turned and fled, Eddy pur- 
suing in righteous wrath. 

An hour later they returned, accom- 
panied by Jimmy’s new-made friend, 
Mr. Norden. 

“Yes,” he began, after the usual in- 
troductions, “I am not here for my 
health, even in a slang sense. I came 
West to plan for my son’s schooling this 
winter. He is not very strong, and I 
want him to spend at least a year in the 
open. I stopped off at Mariposa a night 
ago, and my suit-case was stolen. Luck- 
ily, the thief didn’t get my collection of 
stamps. I had left that on the table, 
where I had been looking it over. The 
only thing I could get there to replace 
my suit-case was that prehistoric thing, 
a telescope.” 

“Columbus discoverin’ th’ c’lecters o r 
Willow,” said Jimmy O’. 

“My friend here” — the stranger turned 
toward Jimmy O’. — “tells me you are in- 
terested in stamps.” 

Then he brought forth an ancient al- 
bum — an old Oppen’s, vintage of ’66. 
He looked long and lovingly upon it. 

“This was my brother’s album. We 
were boyish comrades, back in Boston, 
and we collected together. Of course, 
our methods were very amateurish. It 
was the day when part of a stamp was 
better than no stamp at all, and if we 
could swap with a schoolmate we were 
delighted to add a stamp to our collec- 
tion, regardless of condition. 

“I remember long after the Civil War, 
we picked up some Confederate States 
provisionals which were in immaculate 
condition. I have them yet. And we 
also acquired some others that had been 
carried in soldiers’ pockets until they 
were worn round. However, all was 
grist that came to our mill.” 


27 


Mr. Norden passed the old album 
over to me. I opened it and began 
turning the leaves. There were some 
fine things — rare bits — some almost 
priceless, if they had been perfect. 
Among the Hawaiian stamps were two 
Missionaries, both damaged, one hope- 
lessly so. I noted among the German 
States a Saxony No. 1, part o. g., but 
with a corner gone. The British Guiana 
No. 4, was badly cut into, destroying 
part of the design. And so with many 
others. 

“They are my tattered darlings,” said 
Mr. Norden, “though most of them are 
quite worthless in a monetary sense, in 
a far more precious sense they are dear 
to me. They mean love, honor, self- 
sacrifice — all that is noblest in man; so 
that to me they shine, tattered as they 
are, faded as they are, far beyond rubies 
or pearls.” 

Mr. Norden turned the leaves. He 
stopped at the Confederate States. Then 
he closed the book, and began, reminis- 
cently : 

“You saw the local, Tellico Plains, 
Tennessee? It has its little story of life 
and death. My father was a soldier in 
the Civil War. He was wounded at the 
battle of Petersburg, and lying out on 
the field, the terrible thirst which comes 
to the injured befell him. He lay silent 
for a time. Then, he told me, he 
groaned. A Confederate soldier, him- 


self only a boy, who lay near, spoke and 
offered drink from his canteen. My 
father tried to crawl over to his one- 
time enemy, but his strength was un- 
equal to the task. The Confederate, who 
was badly wounded, managed to drag 
himself to my father. The drink re- 
vived him. The Confederate refused to 
drink, — said he was too hard hit, and in- 
sisted upon my father keeping the can- 
teen. They talked — these one-time ene- 
mies. The Confederate had a sister 
living at Tellico Plains. He gave my 
father her picture — a daguerrotype — a 
letter from her in its envelope, and a 
few trinkets. Then, exhausted, he lay 
back for a while. My father groaned 
again, and the lad tried to lift his head 
to give him water, but the exertion 
opened his wound, and he fell across my 
father’s body. 

“When the ambulance corps came to 
gather the wounded they found my 
father unconscious, beneath the body of 
the dead Confederate. 

“My father lay in hospital for five 
months. When he was able to travel, 
he was sent home. On his full recovery, 
he returned to Tennessee. He took the 
letter and the trinkets and the picture 
to the Confederate soldier’s sister. A 
year later they were married.” 

Again Mr. Norden turned the pages 
of the album. His eyes were wet when 
he came to the page of Confederate 
locals. Ours, too, were more than dim. 


M.FJQHRI8N. 



28 


THE COWBOYS AND THE MOVIES. 


NUMBER THIRTEEN. 


The Heavenly Twins rushed tumultu- 
ously up the path which led to my 
tent-house, and beat upon the door in a 
most reprehensible manner. The sum- 
mons brought me forward on the 
jump. 

“Seen Frevor?” breathlessly inquired 
Jimmy 0\ 

To my negative, and further anxious 
inquiries, Jimmy O’, and Eddy Fyne 
both grinned sheepishly, and then 
sprawled upon the ground while they 
clung to each other and laughed. 

“What’s the matter with you two 
coyotes anyway?” I asked. But my per- 
plexity only redoubled their unseemly 
mirth. However, it was only a short 
time, and Frevor Moore, swinging 
from his horse, idled up the path. 
Jimmy O’, and Eddy at once fell silent. 
Moore looked them over coldly. 

“Ha! The age of chivalry!” he said. 
“And so you two deserted the range an 
hour ahead of me in order to tell my 
friend and yours how it all happened. 
Go ahead, you!” 

Moore sat beside me on the door-sill. 
Jimmy O’, rolled a cigarette and disap- 
peared in the cloud. 

“You see, it was this way,” began 
Eddy. 

“Oh, heck! Eddy, let Frevor tell it,” 
said Jimmy O’. “He c’n let us break 
through an’ explain now an’ then as he 
goes along.” 

“Very thoughtful and considerate, 
Jimmy O’.,” said Moore, with fine sar- 
casm. Then he began: 

“Two weeks ago that movie outfit 
from Chicago asked permission to stage 
some ranch-life scenes up on Three- 
Bar-X. Course, I granted it; but they 
were cautioned not to worry the cattle.” 

“Meanin’ both kinds,” interpolated 
Eddy, with a grin. 

Jimmy chuckled. 

“Well, they set up their apparatus, 
made some films of a routine sort, 
around the ranche-house, and then 
asked as the final favor permission to 
stage a typical old-time cowboy-Indian- 
torture scene. For this scenic perform- 
ance they chose a wide, sweeping mesa, 
with hills surrounding it on three sides. 


Then they hired twenty or thirty Mo- 
javes from McDowell Reservation, fitted 
them out in trappings, paint and feathers, 
and set up the machinery behind a rough 
pile of overhanging rocks, looking 
squarely across the scene of trouble.” 

“Plum’ hostile, that bunch,” mourned 
Eddy, lugubriously. 

“I was far out on the range when 
these preparations were under way,” re- 
sumed Moore. “Eddy and Jimmy O’, 
hadn’t been in for a couple of weeks. 
I thought I would look them up on my 
way back and tell them what was doing. 
Well, I didn’t meet up with them, and so 
rode on down the divide, making for 
the site of the picture camp. As I drew 
near, I heard war-whoops and shoutings 
and when I reached the crest of the hill, 
I reined in and looked down. There 
was as rare a picture as one could 
imagine. A bunch of painted and be- 
feathered Indians were dancing around, 
brandishing weapons and about to put 
a captive cowboy to the fire torture. If 
I hadn’t known the truth I would have 
believed it real — the more so because 
some cheerful idiot of a tenderfoot had 
but recently been chased by Apaches 
near this same spot. 

“Well, I sat and watched things pro- 
gress for two or three minutes. Then 
suddenly, a hundred feet or so from me 
I heard some of the worst cursing any 
wild and careless cowboy was ever 
treated to.” 

“Me — I done it,” said Jimmy O’, with 
a sigh. 

“Me — I helped,” declared Eddy, shar- 
ing in the ignominy. 

“Then, over the top of that hill swept 
my two cowpunchers. I yelled at them. 
But the rush and slide of rock drowned 
my voice. It was one of the roughest 
parts of the divide — nearly ninety de- 
grees slope — but down it pell-mell they 
went, horses slipping and sliding, guns 
out for action, and Jimmy O’, swinging 
his riata. The whooping Indians looked 
up, saw, and scattered like rabbits. The 
intended victim rose to his feet, looked, 
and he, too, made a run for it. Eddy 
didn’t shoot — Heaven be praised ! Jimmy 
O’., riding straight at the running movie- 


29 


cowboy, with a mighty swing lifted him 
in front on the saddle, and swept on, 
men and horses disappearing over the 
next crest. 

“When I reached the movie outfit the 
manager was bewailing the loss of his 
leading man. But the elation of the 
operator was beyond description. 

“ ‘Best picture I ever saw — great — 
great!’ he declared. ‘Wonderful res- 
cue ! Wonderful ! Great hit ! Crowded 
houses ! Oh, my countrymen, what a 
picture !’ 

“Ten minutes later, over the top of 
the hills came Jimmy O’, and Eddy, 
leading their horses. Accompanying 
them was the movie’s leading man, vol- 
ubly explaining.” 

Moore looked at Eddy, who promptly 
rolled over on his back. 

“Kiss me, Hardy!” quoted Jimmy O’., 
from behind his cigarette. 

Right then the notes of the old song, 
“Listen to the Mocking Bird,” were 
borne in upon the soft wind. 

Jimmy O’, and Eddy rose, alert. As 
the whistler came nearer, the two in- 
continently fled. 

Up the path came a man I had seen 
with Moore several weeks before — the 
hero of the movies. 

“I was just telling my friend here 
of the rescue at Three-Bar-X,” said 
Moore. 

The movie man laid his hat upon the 
ground as he stretched out in the ham- 
mock. His face had lost its youth- 
fulness, and I saw he was long past 
the years of boyhood. 

“Yes,” he said, “Yes. It was won- 
derful! We had everything staged for 
a rescue at the last. But when I looked 


up and saw those two real cow-punchers 
coming I felt the heroism of it. Jimmy 
O’, jerked me from my feet and swung 
me upon his horse, knocking the wind 
out of me. Once over the crest of the 
hill the boys slowed down a little, and 
then I explained. The humor of it 
caught them. But I know and feel and 
shall always know and feel, the compel- 
ling heroism of it. They had delib- 
erately courted death — so they thought 
— to save me. And, for their sakes, I 
am sorry it wasn’t a real rescue.” 

“Do not let that worry,” said Moore. 
“They’ll survive that shock.” 

There was more talk, mostly desul- 
tory, and then our visitor left us alone. 
Moore pulled at his pipe. Then, looking 
at me quizzically he laughed. 

“It really appears that every one is in 
wrong today. I made Jimmy O’, and 
Eddy think I took their rescue seri- 
ously” — 

“And I, Moore — even I !” Then I 
joined in the laugh. 

“But those two limbs !” — Moore broke 
off abruptly. There was a noise of de- 
laying feet. 

“See the conquering heroes come !” 
drawled Moore. 

Jimmy O’, and Eddy stepped forth, 
hand in hand, bowed ceremoniously, and 
then groaned in unison. 

“He used t’ be a c’llecter,” declared 
Jimmy. 

“Confed’rates,” added Eddy. 

“An’ he wants t’ hire us fer th’ 
movies !” wailed Jimmy. 

“Virtoo has its pangs,” groaned Eddy. 

“Yes,” added Moore, sententiously, 
“likewise its vice.” 

It was at this point the light broke in 
upon the Twins. 


30 


JIMMY O’.: APOSTLE OF PEACE. 


NUMBER FOURTEEN. 


The postoffice had yielded a bunch 
of stamp literature that would have 
gladdened the soul of any one less en- 
thusiastic philatelically than Jimmy O’, 
and Eddy Fyne. I had revelled in the 
reading, and had carefully filed away 
the papers I wished to preserve — few 
indeed, considering. The others I tossed 
into the hammock, as I heard the beat- 
ing of hoofs up the road. It was the 
day after Jimmy O’, and Eddy were due 
at the border town of Willow. Per- 
haps they were more welcome, because 
of the anticipation. At any rate, here 
they were. 

Jimmy waved his hand deprecatingly 
toward the hammock, which Eddy pro- 
ceeded to occupy, without a word. 

Jimmy looked at Eddy sadly. 

“I shore have spilled the beans, 
Eddy,” he said, sadly. “I shore have. 
An’ we needs them beans a lot.” 

Jimmy sat down upon the ground at 
Eddy’s feet and rolled a cigarette. 
Eddy did not speak. 

“It was this way,” began Jimmy O’. 
“They was a meetin’ las’ night at the 
op’ry house fer the promotion o’ peace 
between the warrin’ nations o’ Europe. 
By heck! The warrin’ nations sounded 
good to me.” 

“Me, too,” declared Eddy. “Not 
countin’ them at home.” 

“Meanin’ sheep an’ cowmen,” inter- 
polated Jimmy. 

“Well,” Jimmy continued, “that there 
warrin’ nations sounded real hostile 
like to me, bein’ I was for peace. We 
went.” 

Jimmy sighed heavily. 

“That was when we spilled ’em,” said 
Eddy, lugubriously. 

“Yep, we went. A bunch o’ them 
prom’nent citizens was on the platform. 
They was lookin’ as hopeful ’sif it was 
their war.” 

“It war,” said Eddy, with a sheepish 
grin. 

“They was three Englishers, four Ger- 
mans, one Belgium, an’ a Jap there 


that I counted. Then I knew whiles the 
war in Europe was progressin’ favor- 
ably, the war in Willow was about to 
begin. Talk about peace!” 

Jimmy O’, doubled up with mirth. 

“One o’ the parsons opened the 
meetin’ with prayer. It was fer peace. 
One o’ the Germans says ‘Amen,’ an’ 
right there I felt I sure was goin’ t’ 
need my gun, w’ich the bishop annexed 
wen I lef’ my cayuse at the stable. 

“Well, as I was sayin’, the prayer and 
the amen started things. 

“Fellow I knew on the range spoke 
first, pleadin’ fer peace. Then two 
other men they pleaded fer peace.” 

“Willin’ t’ fight fer it, too,” said Eddy, 
sadly. 

“About that time one o’ the Germans, 
not speakin’ good English, got up t’ 
speak. Now this chap I know. He’s 
white. He sure bruk down an’ cried 
w’en the war began. He los’ a brother 
an’ two nephews over there. No need 
fer him t’ ask for war. 

“Then one o’ these yer funny fellers 
he ups an’ says, ‘I’m neutral. I don’ 
care a whop who kills th’ kaiser.’ 

“The ol’ German, he sits down, look- 
in’ hurt an’ insulted. Me — I spots Mr. 
Man an’ I ’lows after that there peace 
meetin’ war is sure t’ start. 

“It was pretty bad — that meetin’. 
That there fellow w’at yelped spoiled 
it. But I do’ know — I do’ know. You 
can’t most always sometimes tell. 

“Well, after th’ meetin’, I natcherly 
lays fer Mr. Man.” 

“Nobody prayed fer peace, then,” 
chortled Eddy. “He was past prayin’ 
for in about a minute — that fellow. 
But say! He won’t break up any more 
meetin’s fer a while — not him.” 

“I’m plum ashamed o’ myself — me 
spillin’ the beans thataway,” declared 
Jimmy. 

“Maybe you didn’t sow the seeds 
which fell among stony places,” I sug- 
gested, humorously. Jimmy would not 
rise to it, but picked up a philatelic pa- 
per and was soon absorbed. Eddy found 


31 


another. Neither looked as if he had a 
friend in the world. 

A few minutes later I heard voices. 
Up the path came a local preacher 
whom I had met, an elderly German 
whom I knew and loved, and a sadly 
disfigured cowboy, one eye in mourn- 
ing and a cut lip which interfered some- 
what with his speech. 

When the three discovered the in- 
imitable Jimmy, looking as sad as a 
mourner, and Eddy with a face as long 
as his riata, they smiled. 

“I wish to apologize,” said the minis- 
ter, smiling still. 

“Me, too,” broke in Jimmy. 

“Secon’ the motion,” added Eddy, 
with a blush. 

Then the party started in to explain. 
Jimmy O’., having beaten into his fellow 
cowpuncher the futility of warring at a 
peace meeting, the aforementioned c. p. 
had gone to the old German to apolo- 
gize. There he had met the minister, 
who, likewise, felt the need of apology. 
Then the three had concluded to look up 
the inseparables, and apologize to them 
for the necessity of carrying the war 
out of Europe and into Willow. 


When Jimmy rose from the hammock 
the papers fell upon the ground. The 
minister picked one up, with a glance 
at the headline. 

“Why, are you interested in stamps? 
I collected when I was a boy, and I 
really believe I have the album home 
now, in my trunk.” 

“Me — I lef mine up on th’ range. 
But I sure am int’rested,” declared 
Jimmy. 

“I haf some letters from my odder 
nephews. I gif you de stamps,” said the 
old German, kindly. “They haf dose 
funny marks. One of de poys is Rus- 
sian prisoner. De odder, French pris- 
oner. I gif you all de enwelope mit 
dose funny marks.” 

Meantime the disfigured cowpuncher 
sat upon the ground, looking at the cuts 
of new issues. 

“Gee! Is them the things? Gee! 
I’ll jest start in an’ collec’ ’em myself!” 

“An’ we thought we’d spilled the 
beans!” declared Jimmy, whimsically, to 
the somewhat mystified visitors, as they 
started down the path to garner the 
envelopes with the “funny marks.” 


32 


PHILATELY OFF THE RANGE. 


NUMBER FIFTEEN. 


“How many does it take to make a 
quorum?” 

Jimmy O’, looked over the top of the 
Weekly at his hdus achates, who sat up- 
on the ground, hugging his knees and 
scowling fiercely apropos of nothing. 

“A quorum, Eddy, consists principally 
of one man an’ a gun,” declared Jimmy 
O’, as he resumed reading. 

Eddy grinned appreciatively, arose, 
and, entering the house, resumed with 
me the subject nearest his heart. 

“Frien’ o’ ourn, w’at we need here in 
Arizony is more lungs an’ fewer 
c’lecters. W’y, in this here town o’ 
Willow, an’ up there on th’ range, I 
count ’leven faithful men an’ true who’ve 
got elections, an’ some of ’em mighty 
fine ones at that — a whole lot better’n 
some o’ their lungs. Now what we need 
in Arizony is — ” 

“More sheep an’ less goats,” broke in 
Jimmy O’, from his vantage point in the 
doorway. 

Eddy reared up. Mention of sheep 
always made him peevish. Then, after 
he’d spluttered a moment, much to 
Jimmy’s joy, he resumed : 

“W’at we need right in this here town 
o’ Willow is a philatelic society. An’ 
we c’n read papers, an’ exchange views 
an’ have a forg’ry election, an’ trade 
stamps, an’ — an’ — ” 

“Have two-minute rounds wit’ the 
gloves.” Jimmy ended the sentence and 
Eddy subsided. 

“It would be a good stunt — first-rate”, 
I declared. 

“Stamps er rounds?” questioned Jim- 
my, with his grin, as the boys started 
for the range. 

* * * 

About two o’clock of a cool afternoon, 
a fortnight after the foregoing conver- 
sation, the Philatelic Society of Arizona 
was born. Frevor Moore was chosen 
president, Jimmy O’, vice-president, and 
Eddy treasurer. The secretarial honors 
fell to me. 

“You’re on the ground, an’ c’n answer 
letters any time,” declared Jimmy. 

“An’, by heck ! You gotta be librarian, 
too — fer if they’re any books cornin’ t’ 
Arizony you oughta have ’em,” declared 
the new treasurer. 


“It hardly seems fair to the boys to 
meet and elect ourselves to office without 
giving them a chance to vote,” suggested 
Moore, after we had dispensed the busi- 
ness. 

# “Oh, they’ll agree, all right,” said 
Jimmy O’. “You jest bet they’ll agree.” 

“Sure,” affirmed Eddy, “sure. Else 
we wouldn’t a-done it. No, sir. But if 
any of ’em would want a office, we’ll 
give ’em one — gee ! we’ll cre-ate th’ 
office now — an’ it’ll be — it’ll be — Jimmy 
O’., you tell.” 

“Authenticator of postmarks,” de- 
clared Jimmy O’., without batting an 
eyelash. 

Eddy gasped. Then he solemnly arose, 
shook Jimmy’s hand, walked quickly out 
of the door, down the path, and van- 
ished. 

We three fell to reading. 

Half an hour later, Eddy appeared. 
With him was a small and slender man, 
forty or thereabouts. Fie wore a huge 
pair of iron-bowed spectacles, anchored 
behind his ears, through the binnacles of 
which a pair of hazel eyes looked joyous- 
ly out upon a troubled world. The man’s 
hair was almost white at the temples. 
His face showed traces of sorrow and 
suffering, commingled with a sweetness 
about the mouth in spite of its strength 
and firmness. He was dressed in the 
typical cowboy style, — hickory shirt, 
blue overalls, high heel riding boots, 
and the wide-brim light Stetson, so com- 
mon in the southwest. His cartridge- 
belt hung loose about his waist. It held 
two Luegers, the scabbards tied down. 

Before Eddy introduced him, I knew 
at once it was Willy Grow, cow-puncher, 
riata-thrower, and the quickest and most 
accurate shot in the entire outfit of Ari- 
zona Rangers, — now, alas! legislated out 
of office. 

Moore’s greeting was most friendly, 
and Jimmy’s tumultuously joyful. 

“He’s th’ — he’s th’ — anyways, he gits 
that there office Jimmy O’, cre-a-ted a- 
whiles back,” said Eddy. “He’s accepted 
—has Willy.” 

The hazel eyes and the entire face 
beamed with a smile which won me. 

“You see, Eddy met me on Main street 
— I haven’t seen him for several years — 


33 


and, having learned from Jimmy O’, that 
I was interested in stamps, he insisted 
on my presence and acceptance of office,” 
said Willy. 

Jimmy O’, explained the jest. 

'‘Well, not so bad, after all,” said 
Willy. “Every philatelic society should 
create that particular office in these days 
of fraudulent cancellations, — which re- 
minds me that I ran across the queerest 
outfit down in Nogales you ever saw.” 

Willy paused to roll a cigarette. 

“Let’s have the story, Willy,” said 
Moore. “I know it’s worth while.” 

“I hadn’t been working much for 
about a month — just drifting along the 
border, looking for strays. Mexican 
bandits and guerillas had been running 
off stock from American ranches, and a 
reward of worth-while proportions had 
been offered for a certain bunch of 
rustlers, dead or alive.” 

“Me — I prefer ’em dead — that kind,” 
chipped in Eddy. 

“You’re right, Eddy. They’re safer 
to handle,” declared Willy, resuming 
his narrative. 

“I had been in Nogales only about 24 
hours, but every Mexican there knew 
why I was there and what I wanted. 
‘Gringo — gringo’ was whispered when- 
ever I passed a group. Their looks did 
not reassure me of any mercy if I fell 
among them of a dark night, remote 
and alone. 

“I was passing a little cag-mag of a 
hole — Mexican restaurant and hotel — 
when I heard a voice say in English: 

“ ‘Wee-lee ! One mo-ment !’ 

“Out of the door came an old Mexi- 
can I had known further north on the 
range. He was a fine old chap, and we 
had struck up quite a friendship. I 
went into the place with him, and he 
introduced me to a number of his 
friends. 

“It seems it was a sort of revolution- 
ary headquarters, and the makers of the 
Mexico of tomorrow congregated there 
to plot and plan. 

“I was very frank to tell my friend 
the reason for being there. He looked 
very grave for a moment, then his kind- 
ly old face wrinkled into smiles. He 
called over one of his friends, and to 
him was explained my presence in No- 
gales. 

“ ‘My friend, the reward is not for 
you/ said the old man, ‘but for us. 
There shall be no more/ 

“Then he talked of other things, finally 
leading up to stamps — for the old chap 
was interested, even as I. 


“He called over another of his friends, 
and we talked for a couple of hours 
longer. It seems the younger man had 
been an official high in the postoffice de- 
partment under the Diaz regime. What 
he did not know about Mexican stamps 
and cancellations was infinitesimal. He 
left for a few minutes, and when he re- 
turned he brought a bundle of all sorts 
and conditions of envelopes, with revo- 
lutionary stamps galore. Then we spent 
the rest of the night looking them over, 
he pointing out to me the minutest er- 
rors, many unknown to philatelic 
students here — showed me faked cancel- 
lations and genuine that could not be 
told apart except by an expert. Both 
were from the same hand-stamp, only an 
infinitesimal mark had been made on its 
face when the cancelling stamp was dis- 
carded ! 

“Well, I absorbed information. I found 
there were runaway postmasters along' 
the border who were cancelling stamps 
by wholesale — stamps they had stolen 
when they fled. He knew them one and 
all. 

“I never left until after breakfast. 
Then my two friends escorted me back 
to my hotel. 

“ ‘El Americano/ said the same Mexi- 
cans who whispered ‘gringo’ when I 
passed before. They seemed to think 
now I was either furnishing arms or 
financing the revolution. 

“As I was getting on the train to go 
North, next day, a man unknown to me 
— a Mexican — pushed a package into my 
hands, and promptly disappeared into 
the crowd. 

“When I opened it, I found as fine a 
lot of Mexican revolutionary stamps, on 
and off covers, — singles — pairs — blocks — 
and even a few sheets — as ever came 
out of that troubled republic. 

“There was a note, too, from my old 
friend, in explanation. The raids were 
not authentic, nor the reward. It was 
all done as a blind to cover the running 
of arms and ammunition across the bor- 
der. 

“The reward to me was that outfit of 
stamps. And now, Jimmy O’., you see 
I can be of assistance Jo you and the 
Philatelic Society of Arizona, in solving 
the authenticity of cancellations of Mex- 
ican stamps, if of no others.” 

Then the members of the society pro- 
ceeded to feast their individual eyes up- 
on as wonderful a lot of Mexican revo- 
lutionary stamps as ever pleasured those 
of our estimable Columbus expert, to 
whom be all honors. 


34 


JIMMY O’. WORKS A REFORM. 


NUMBER SIXTEEN. 


“When I see w’at this here Arizony 
air does fer lungs, it sure rejices me.” 

Jimmy O’, swung lazily to and fro in 
a new hammock which he had evolved 
from the staves of two old barrels and 
a cast-off riata. The outfit hung from 
a catalpa tree and a eucalyptus, where 
the shadow of the pepper trees occasion- 
ally fell. Having constructed his ham- 
mock, Jimmy O’, felt it incumbent upon 
him to occupy it at all times of day, 
regardless of the position of the sun. 
Sometimes he baked, sometimes he 
boiled ; all times he felt a seraphic peace 
resultant upon achievement. 

“One time they comes here, one time 
they goes. Lots uv ’em stays under 
groun’, more uv ’em stays above an’ 
makes good citizens. W’y, out at Pozo 
del Desierto you c’d take care o’ a big 
bunch. I got it, by heck! Let’s start a 
sanatorium fer c’lecters !” 

Jimmy O’, began to roll a cigarette 
while I cogitated. Pozo del Desierto — 
or, Englished, Well of the Desert, is 
eight miles due east of Willow, on the 
old Apache trail, the highway to the 
Roosevelt dam. It is the last desert 
ranche, for the government land bor- 
ders it on the east. There is a deep well 
of purest water — a gasoline engine — a 
pump — a barn — a house of three rooms, 
and one hundred and sixty acres of un- 
cultivated desert. But tenant none. I 
had bought the place a year before, but 
my tenant had so effectively disagreed 
with a man that the free air would 
know him no more for a long term of 
years. Since that time I had stayed 
with my dreams which, so far, had failed 
to come true. 

“Well, you c’n think it over,” said 
Jimmy, from his obscurity, “an’ maybe 
we c’n git a colony o’ c’lecters out here 
t’ breathe our good air an’ drink our 
pure water an’ — ” 

“Swap stamps. Yes, sir,” broke in 
Eddy, from his refuge on the ground. 
“That’s what’ll cheer ’em up. An’ you, 
frien’ o’ ourn, c’n start a paper, an’ we 
c’n learn ’em all to set type an’ kick th’ 
press, an’ the desert’ll bloom like — 
like—” 


“A bee sting.” Jimmy O’, finished the 
sentence. Then he continued : 

“Speakin’ o’ c’lecters, I nev’ tole yuh 
’bout that preacher I met up with onct? 
No? Well, it sure was some humersome. 
Yuh see, they was a conf’rence in Wil- 
low, one time back, an’ some tenderfeet 
was there. Me — I drifts in t’ hear ’em 
preach. Some uv ’em was middlin’ — 
some of ’em was pretty poor — one was 
fine. Methodis’, I f ergot t’ say. Well, 
I kind-a cottons t’ th’ good un, an’ mills 
aroun’ a little hearin’ ’m w’enever I gits 
a chanst. He was a kind-a ole chap, 
an’ he had a son there, too — Harold — 
an’ ’is son’s wife war with ’em. Well, 
me an’ th’ ole gent meets up, fin’ly, an’ 
he tells me all about it. Son gits th’ 
bugs, back East. Dad packs up an’ 
comes West t’ save ’im. By heck! I 
met son, an’ I thinks he sure aint wuth 
ary sacerfice — not him. Wife’s a dandy 
woman. C’lects. Me an’ her takes t’ 
one ’nother but son takes to me like I 
was pizen. 

“Well, dad buys a dinky rancho for 
son, who ’predates it ’bout as much as a 
diamon’-back can, an’ perceeds to stay 
wit’ ’em an’ stake ’em. I see ’em some 
frequent, me passin’ th’ rancho on my 
way in an’ out o’ town. 

“Well, one day they-all thought a pic- 
nic would be fine over t’ th’ foothills o’ 
Superstition, an’ th’ ole gent invites me 
to ’light, as I were passin’. Now the 
ole gent was some c’lecter, onct, w’en ’e 
was a kid — had a pretty nice bunch o’ 
U. S. that he’d drag out an’ show me, 
now an’ then, invitin’ me in w’en ’e see 
me ridin’ by. I hated t’ stop, son bein’ 
so derned peevish, but I jest had t’ do 
that same. Son’s wife was mighty kind 
t’ me that picnic day, me bein’ a jest, but 
son he strolls off fer a lonesome. After 
awhiles I climbs on ole pinto an’ hits 
out for th’ range. ’Bout half a mile out 
I meets up wit’ son. He flags me. 

“ ‘A word with you, Mr. O’Callaghan, ’ 
says ’e. 

“An then he perceeds t’ flay me fer 
w’at ’e calls my ’tentions t’ ’is wife. Well 
I lets it all soak in, an’ then, sir — then, 
bein’ some het up, I talks t’ Harold f’om 


35 


th’ shoulder — tole ’im w’at ’is daddy and 
’is wife wer doin’ fer ’im — ev’rybody 
willin’ t’ help fer their sakes — an’ called 
’im ungrateful and some more things not 
wuth mentionin’. 

“Well, he kep’ lookin’ queerer an’ 
queerer, me gittin’ madder an’ madder. 

“ ‘You wouldn’t dare t’ talk that-a-way 
t’ me if you weren’t armed,” says ’e, 
some highfalutin’. 

“Well, I was that mad I hopped off’n 
ole pinto, onbuckled my belt, and threw 
my gun an’ scabbard an’ all at ’is feet. 

“ ‘There, durn ye !’ says I, ‘go to it ! 
Ye blame coward yuh, shoot away, an’ 
then fill yer infernal wretched minchin’ 
carkiss full o’ lead an’ leave the de- 
centes’ woman ’at ever lived a chanst t’ 
git some peace she’ll never know so 
long as you’re on top th’ earth t’ hound 
’er !’ 

“Say! ’e looks at the gun, picks it 
up, an — ” 

Jimmy threw away his half-smoked 
cigarette as he rose to his feet, continu- 
ing: 

“I had t’ choke ’im — I’m ’shamed t’ tell 
it, but I did, fer sure. He want goin’ 
t’ shoot me. He wor goin’ t’ kill hisself. 
I couldn’t sca’cely git th’ gun off’n him. 
W’en I did that same, he wor cryin’ wit’ 
shame an’ rage. It tuk me nigh a hour 
t’ tame ’im down. Then ’e says t’ me, 
’e says, — 

“ ‘Mr. O’Callaghan’ — meanin’ Jimmy 
O’. — ‘I have seen a great light. You 


have done me an inestimable service. 
You have more than saved a life — you 
have saved a soul.’ 

“You bet I lit out fer th’ range ’bout 
then, an’ I nev’ turns up fer three 
months. 

“I was passin’ the dinky rancho, then, 
an’ w’at happens ? Harold is out in over- 
alls a-makin’ th’ garding — workin’ hard, 
too. Rancho looks mighty prosperous 
— turkeys, chickens, ducks, roses, an’ all. 
An’ Harold he sees me. Say! You’d 
a-thought I were the long-lost brother ! 
He pretty nigh kissed me — wife did 
reely — both uv ’em laughin’ an’ cryin’ 
like. And Daddy! Well, the dear ole 
chap jest hung onto my loose han’ and 
wet it up some wit’ ’is tears. 

“Seems Harold had come back t’ th’ 
picnickers an’ tole ’em all about it; said 
he’d never knew he was so plum’ onery 
ontil I made it plain. Wife she starts 
to break in, but dad he hoi’s up ’is hand 
fer her t’ wait ontil Harold gits through. 
Then, sir, dad, bein’ a preach, says, ‘Let 
us pray’. An’ right there ’e thanks God 
fer th’ ’lightenment of ’is on’y son, et 
cetery.” 

Jimmy took a long drink at the olla. 
Then, with his quizzical smile, he added : 

“An’ all three uv ’em er now prayin’ 
fer Jimmy O’.” 

“Which same he sure needs,” de- 
clared Eddy, as he closed his eyes for 
another siesta. 


36 


THE “ONE-LUNGER.” 


NUMBER SEVENTEEN. 


I have seen many men and some wo- 
men with the hopeless misery in their 
faces, that self-conscious stricken look 
which is the pariah’s knowledge of 
doom : for this is the “Winter of our 
discontent,” wherein the health-seeker 
from the East, fleeing the approaching 
cold, revels in the blue skies and glori- 
ous warmth of an Arizona winter. I re- 
peat, I have seen many men 1 — but keep 
me, pitying gods ! from second sight of 
one passing face in which shone forth 
the hopeless longing for the home for- 
ever closed to him because of his afflic- 
tion, and the thought of the possible 
fate of dear ones should his life and 
theirs further converge. 

I had known Barton Mack as a boy 
and man; for he was from my home 
town. Unfortunately for him, he had 
not outgrown the illiberalism of youth. 
Our free full life did not appeal to him; 
and, besides, he was cursed with a cer- 
tain aloofness which he could not over- 
come, and this, of itself, prevented the 
“mixing” essential to proper understand- 
ing of men and manners in the West. I 
had done my best but gave him up as 
hopeless a fortnight before. I couldn’t 
even interest him in stamps. This morn- 
ing he passed the shack, afoot, his face 
studiously set against me. I did not hail 
him, and my delinquency was strong on 
my conscience. When the sting of it 
was just taking hold, the inevitable cloud 
of dust appeared. It was a minute later 
that Jimmy O.’ threw himself from his 
petted cow-pony, hurtled his way up the 
path to the hammock, flopped into it, and 
delivered himself of the single phrase, 
“By heck !” that expressed for him some- 
times grief, sometimes anger. Then he 
laughed. 

“Say! It sure would get you! That 
old cow-puncher, Jack Frazer, ’s got an 
auto — I see him stickin’ the spurs into 
it an’ yellin’ ‘whoa! whoa!’ as he went 
up MacDonald street, me wavin’ my 
Scotch plaid at him an’ yellin’ fit to bust 
my lungs. I sure near got pinched by 
that new marshal, only the boys kidded 
him to a finish. An’ Phil Mets, too — 
he’s got an auto. Criminy Jims! Next 


we know, you’ll be gettin’ yours out, an’ 
Johnny’ll be buyin’ one, an’ the hull 
range’ll smell o’ gasoline, an’ — ” 

Jimmy was out of breath. He rolled 
a cigarette, and looked quizzically at me, 
for my auto was taboo. I had bought 
“Doc” Balmer’s one-lunger discard, 
which “Doc” declared would really go 
without the aid of horses, got stuck on 
the desert seven miles from home, and 
was towed ignominously into town by 
two gleeful cowboys, one of whom in- 
sisted upon relieving me at the steering 
wheel. After that experience, I careful- 
ly locked the one-lunger in the shed and 
tinkered with it off and on. It had its 
fits and starts of going, but the fits pre- 
dominated. 

All of which is a stage aside. 

“Anyway,” resumed Jimmy, from the 
obscurity of cigarette smoke, “since 
Frevor Moore went ‘hover ’ome’ after 
sellin’ his ranche to good ole Johnny 
Williams, an’ ole Eddy Fyne’s foreman, 
an’ the red-headed girl in the postoffice 
is properly roped an’ tied to her puncher 
choice — thereby deprivin’ me of my light 
through life, — I say, friend o’ mine” — 

Jimmy stopped, looking expectantly 
down the path. Barton Mack was pass- 
ing once more, reading a letter. He 
looked up, smiled, spoke, and passed on. 
Jimmy turned to me again. 

“It’s a bum bully old world, an’ we 
like it lots. But me — well, breathe it 
not — or at least gentle-like, I’m goin’ 
back to college — engineering fer mine.” 

I looked incredulous. 

“Yes; I shall resume my studies and 
my English undefiled. This tranquil life 
has no further charms for me. Dad has 
issued his call to the wild — and I have 
heard it.” 

When Jimmy sloughed his range lan- 
guage I knew it was generally serious. 
This time it was fatal. 

“Before I soak up education I’m con- 
tinuin’ human,” declared Jimmy, with 
his whimsical smile. “Meantime, who’s 
your friend?” 

I told poor Mack’s history from' the 
cradle to the verge of the grave. 

“And, Jimmy,” I said in closing, “if 
there’s anything you can do — anything 


37 


you can think up to interest him, do it. 
It’ll save his life.” 

Jimmy smoked and blew rings for an 
hour while I read the Weekly, small 
ads and all. Then he broke the silence. 

“Speakin’ of autos, what’ll you take 
fer yours?” 

“Jimmy,” I said, sadly, “if you weren’t 
a friend of mine I’d give it to you.” 

“Nope. I’ll lease it,” declared Jimmy. 

So, for the sum of one dollar, to make 
it legal, Jimmy O.’ leased a certain 
Cadillac one-lunger, which I warranted 
not to go, and I further loaned him the 
use of tools and shop — garage, Jimmy 
insisted on calling it. Jimmy took pos- 
session at once, and I started into the 
mountains that afternoon, to delve 
amongst some prehistoric dwellings. 

Three weeks later I came into town, 
brown, unshaven, my clothing in rags, 
but rich with precious specimens of 
other days. A familiar chug-chug struck 
my ear, and behold! up the main street 
of Willow went my old one-lunger, Bar- 
ton Mack at the wheel, Jimmy beside 
him. 

“The holy pride of parenthood’s in 
their systems,” explained Jack Frazer, 
whom I encountered on the bank corner. 

An hour later Jimmy came up the old 
path to the waiting hammock, dug up 
“the makin’s” and when properly ob- 
scured, explained: 

“You see, I knowed that boy was 
plumb dyin’ fer somethin’ to occupy his 
twenty-four hours, only eight of which 
he had to sleep in, so I thinks o’ your 
auto. That’d keep anybody busy. Sure !” 

I nodded approval. 

“Then I milled around till eatin’ time, 
an’ follered ’em in to the chink’s. Jack 
was there — an’ Phil — an’ Bart — all look- 
in’ solemn as a Pima on parade. Me — 
I felt some swelled up. 

“ ‘Hello !’ I says. ‘Where’s your auto, 
Jack?’ 

“ ‘Shop,’ says Jack, sour like. 

“‘Broke a laig, Jack? You sure’ll have 
to shoot it,’ I says, Bart snickered — fer 
the first time since he left home, I bet. 

“Jack had to grin, an’ he says : ‘Well, 
ole scout, wait till you get one !’ 

“Then Jack started to eat his soup, but 
I cooled it for him. I says : 


“ ‘Me ? Oh, I got one, now.’ 

“Jimmy looked at me quizzically. 

“But I won’t repeat the language them 
two ole bachelors used up on me when 
they found it was Doc’s — er — former pa- 
tient. But say ! the kid — Bart — he flares 
up an’ butts in ; says that auto was made 
in his ole town — Detroit-fer-Mine — 
nothin’ to beat it, even if it was old it 
was honest — an’ he ’lowed he’d make it 
go if I’d let him. Say! He showed as 
much interest as an over-due mortgage, 
an’ we fed ’im plenty. 

“We never stopped fer pie, even, but 
hit it fer the garage. Say, if there’s any- 
thin’ in mechanics Bart don’t know, 
shoot me! He had to disembowel that 
auto an’ fer four days I was cleanin’ 
parts. Then he gets busy an’ assembles. 
Go? You seen us!” 

Jimmy swung back and forth, the joy 
of conquest in his soul. Up the path 
came Barton Mack, color in cheeks, and 
eyes alight with interest. With a warm 
clasp of the hand, he said : 

“Can’t thank you enough. If it hadn’t 
been for ‘Old Faithful’ and Jimmy, here, 
I’d ended everything three weeks ago. 
Now I’ll get well — the Doctor tells me 
so — said all I needed was to take in- 
terest”— 

“He’s renewed the mortgage,” inter- 
rupted Jimmy, from his obscurity. 

“And I love the country and the people 
— and the family is coming out to spend 
the Winter!” 

Mack was happy as a boy. He had 
arrived ! 

“One of his sisters collects stamps,” 
added Jimmy, “an’ she’s goin’ to bring 
’em with her. She’s got Monaco com- 
plete, shades an’ all, an’ two copies o’ 
the five francs, first issue, Bart tells me. 
She specializes in Monaco, he says.” 

“She’ll give you one of them sure, 
Jimmy,” declared Mack. “I’ll make her.” 

Jimmy looked horror-struck; then he 
blushingly added : 

“An’ now that we’re closin’ these 
simple annals of the range, allow me to 
add that I’ll take that course in engi- 
neerin’ in little ole Ann Arbor. I’ll 
board at Bart’s.” 

Which is fitting close for these chron- 
icles and Jimmy’s history. 


38 






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